We lay down together
under the sunny weather,
and there’s something about this I will remember,
something I tether to and will surely treasure.

The sun is a halo on your face.
The stars are distant wishes from space.
There is light in the fingers we lace,
in scars we defaced and those we showcase,
memories we debase and wish to erase,
and there is hope in what we replace
with new despair and flowers
and countless golden showers;
meteor wishes, constellation bridges,
in the path there are hitches
and in life there are glitches
misplaced stitches,
deep and inescapable ditches,
and my tears are brushed with your kisses.

I cannot thank the life you have given me,
enough for you to understand what you mean
to me. I hope you can see past the sea of debris
that we leave in our forest of deranged trees;
and I hope this poem thanks you
in the way that I can’t through talking.
I really wish you knew
that despite my endless squawking—
I love you.
I love you.

I am so thankful for you. I don’t know. Perhaps looking at the blue sky and seeing the clouds, the beauty of simply existing under the sun with the golden light in my hair and on our linked fingers, made me realize this fully; in how you rush and excite and always aim to fulfill, in how you have flown on wings of love into the sky to place the stars at a height that I can reach, in how you have held me from day to day.

I remember.

[Life is hard.]

[We live it anyways.]
(You make it easier.)

The sun is so bright. You are so bright. You is not singular; there will be so many yous in my life, but for now, this is to those that have loved me and those that will continue loving me. And I grasp the stems of the grass with my free hand, and I pull, and I smell the fresh scent of its blood; and I offer it to you as a sacrifice of nature, what I would do for you, what I will try my best to always amend for. I laugh and throw the blades of grass into the air. It rains, it rains, it rains— but the sun is still out because you are smiling.

Dew drips from our hair. And we lie in the grass. And there is a brush of color through the sky; and there is the blue of outer space, and there is the distant crater in the moon, and there is your love, my return of it in the way I can only think of returning it, and I will never not be sorry for forgetting what you have done for me. And I have hurt you and you have hurt me but the songs you sing still wash like a libation through my ears. You are cleansing. And you make the grass grow back as flowers.

Pluck the petals and sing. Pluck them and wish. And then we will sink into the bed of floral carcasses we have created over time and we will join them; and then the people that follow us will lie upon us and love as well. And someday we will be together. Not in the afterlife, or heaven, but simply in the small, sentimental bubble we have created.

Goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning…