little yellow flowers in her ears
and they trundled along the gravel path,
when their bellies grumbled
from a day spent lying atop
a small hill near the golf course
radiance from the setting
rays of sunlight shown
a haunting sordid undertone
that a young boy in love
just never would have known.

I'm on my way,
It's a journey,they say
Greenery all around,
A melodious sound.
With a hint of yellow,
The shades all mellow.

As I stare out,
There are certain things I doubt,
with the scenery changing every second
watching green and yellow blend,
I wonder why I feel so low,
There are things I really need to know.

The wind blowing slowly,
I bend into it lowly,
Questioning myself,'Am I good enough?'
'No.'answers a voice rough and tough.

I let the tears spill down,
wearing the 'Miss Lonely' crown,
I feel morose,
Now that I see my woes.

It would be a happy journey,I thought.
Now, in a mesh of loneliness, I am caught.
What to do?
Go, where to?

How much would it cost?
To get back, I am *Lost.

The brush is still in the garage
on the cold, cement floor
beside the empty tin of paint,
its sides eternally dripping
with a dried, buttercup hue.

The walls which we smothered with color
are faded, now riddled with children’s earthy hand-prints
after a day in the mud. A mess to us,
the results of battles, safaris,
and space travels to them.

I could paint over the marks,
start over fresh and show off to friends.
But I think I’ll let it be.
No longer the bright yellow of a sun trapped in a painting,
these four walls have still brightened many days.

There has been roaring laughter,
divided by a few screaming matches
that have made the dog whimper.
This room has seen much of our lives,
and life cannot be painted over so easily.

So it stays. The color will always be buttercup to me.

Red.
Like parting lips,
Shushed kisses.
Like high school varsity jackets.

Orange.
Like the shirt you wore
The day we met.
Like my least favorite color.

Yellow.
Like the lemonade,
So sour we spit it out.
Like summers we spent together.

Green.
Like minty gum,
Newly freshened mouths.
Like the grass I lost my innocence on.

Blue.
Like the pen I used
To write your love letters.
Like all the times we've cried.

Indigo.
Like bruises, covered
By jeans high on hips.
Like the nights we stained with lust.

Violet.
Like every single thought
Led back to you.  
Like even the spectrum had thoughts of you.

I breathe in this silence that is not
Silenced,
Air alive with heartbeats and
Clocks ticking too slow,
Eyes meeting over
Sticky plastic tables,
Snapping away like an awkward blind date,
Fingertips drumming impatiently.
Wait.
Calm.
Be patient.
Tick...tock........tick...............tock

I can't, I won't, my son laying
One floor, 3 hallways, 12 rooms away,
But we are relegated to the hospital cafeteria as if my husband and I are naughty schoolchildren,
Interfering.
My red shirt crumples beneath
Nervous fingers,
The same shade as the blood given
To my son, not knowing it contained
Death.
Why can't I fight with my son,
My son,
Shining brightly and boldly as the sun,
Infected with a blood-borne killer we were never warned about.
Hemophilia is a tough diagnosis,
But my careful worrying wasn't enough to save him from a
Diagnosis of ostracism and certain death.
AIDS.
Oh God.
Breathe.
Can't breathe.
Time moves too fast, my son racing towards eternity
Alone.


White sheets and sterile beds rob
My son of all his sunshine,
Lips blue and pale like my husband's jacket,
Nothing but incessant beeping and bustling nurses who can't fix him,
Clock going tick, tock, tick, tock.
I see red.
Red dripping into and out of his arms through silver needles,
How do I know that this is safe,
No one knows if this is safe,
This is our only hope.


Tick..tock.....tick........tock.
White coat of the doctor moving too quickly towards us,
We run.
My heart thumping red and my stomach yellow bile and my eyes leaking blue.
Hospital room not room enough for all my emotions,
All of my tears,
All of my grief,
All his last breaths.
My son.
No longer my sunshine,
Just a pale winter afternoon,
No sun beneath cold sheets of snow.
My son.

Time moves too slow when everyone wears black,
Like molasses dripping from a jar into
Metallic air and earthy graves.
Like ash clouding out the sun.
My son.
No more my sun.