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.