Green Eyes
You wore a green shirt,
as I remember.
It was bright and lit up your eyes.
Your smile scrunched, your eyes narrowed
sweetly, like you knew what you were doing.
You sat to my left, I was scared,
nervous, not brave, but stunned
to a stammer, before I could ask you.
A simple drive, to pass the time;
soft cheeks, funny jokes, it
wasn’t so cold out but
winter hung over us like an outlook.
We hustled along, passed the parked
cars and up the sloped hill.
Honks spilled along the sidewalk’s sill.
I wish it had been you with me, along
the lonely walks I had walked once
alone.
Until you, not showed up, but
rolled in, like the wind does
while the seasons change,
like a green clue subsides to blue
or brown sounds drowning like summer
does to the autumn tides.
The seasons worry me, ‘cause they’re
not the only thing changing, everything
they stand for and bring herds and
burns the sensations left wasting.
They buy tickets and stamps and
long letters that will only get
lost in the translation or the
transition, which brought and formed
at the last meeting.
So I’ll greet you, smile, wave
drop you off, come pick you up,
carry your bags and brush away the
scuffs that you’ll inevitably bring back.
But I’ll be up, sometimes down, by the
corner we walked and talked out loud around.
Your arm over mine in the sun
shine, your face looks timeless like
broken hands snapped off of a clock,
ticking at the reunion that is the
next time we’ll see each other.
Something like one hundred days, nights, weeks,
months, yet less than a year. A
year I could do; without the shouts
we never said.
A year I’ll think about the white sheets
and the love songs, on the window
seat, laughing and writing lyrics with
our hearts. We both say at the same
time we wish it wasn’t happening but
the sad part, not the ending, has us coming
back to the same place, where I’ll see
your face again, walk in and sit to your right.
You’re wearing a green shirt,
as I remember.
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