he was the sun that rose at five.
he was the one who resembled the fiery strokes.
he had a laugh that could shake the earth.
his voice boomed throughout the lands of daisies and primroses.
his constant jittering and moving kept me awake and aware as my eyes wandered over his confused movements.
his eyes wandered wherever like mine but was never to mine — to others.
his pupils flicked for a moment to mine and was suddenly, in a long second, long gone.

i could feel you everywhere i turn. from the scents from the flower shops to the fresh baguettes from the cafés. and when i wear your shirt it makes everything seem extra. you’re long and gone but your perfume and footsteps aren’t.

lacy dresses
and $79 kisses
and heels the length of the empire state
and brown lustful eyes,
she was the moon of his life.
sleek suits
and chapped .99 cent kisses
and shoes reflecting the neon lights
and blue yearning eyes,
he was the sun of her life.

“he was in love with you, my dear,
how could you not have seen that?
more than anything he wanted to be able
to touch you,
and kiss you,
and call him yours.”
the triplet of friends told
the young lady who wouldn’t believe.
“but why wouldn’t he tell me?
why had he not told me he loved me?”
frustration took over the lass
like a wolf unable to catch a sheep.
“i’m afraid that would be too late, my dear.
for the redamancy had become
of between him
and his best mate.”

had she known
it would be an experience of more than one
that she wouldn’t infatuate the boy
with the tall built
and common interests.
that she wouldn’t fall for someone
she knew wouldn’t do the same,
yet breaking the rules,
she brought pain to her own heart.

she started the way other silhouettes did;
clean, pure, a scratch out of sight.
she was a blank canvas with no watercolor
until she met him.
he provided her with every possible color,
from lavender, to rouge, to wine.
it was after countless of seconds
that he smeared azure on her.
garnet soon followed.
raven did not want to be left behind either.
what used to be a porcelain canvas
had now turned into a parade of colors
with holes and scratches in the fabric.

on days when the wind
dances ever so gracefully,
i think about how your
milk chocolate skin would feel
against my own honey skin;
and i would crave it.
i would crave every inch
of your cotton based skin,
your chapped watermelon lips,
and to have my fingers
fumbled in your fiery strands.
i crave for your careful touch,
yet i think of your cuffed grasp.