Drive up pass you- front and center.

I used to see him in the halls.
The nametag said janitor, but I don’t believe I ever saw him clean. Clean house with his charm maybe. It was always interesting- watching the girls of flat ironed hair and dark circled eyes swarm around him like kids to an ice-cream truck. He was a skyscraper to my five foot body and I thought he should have been playing basketball with Kareem instead of cleaning toilets (if he ever did). He was probably the only one over fourteen who still had the glint in his eye- his heart was probably as soft and cushy as his afro which nestled a bright green comb.
The man didn’t seem to like him. The man being the woman principle. He was gone by January. And the bubblegum surprise to our French vanilla splattered halls eliminated.
So I see him now in the passenger seat of a driving student’s car. He is laughing and as he turns to look out the window, he smiles. It was nice to remember you, my reply expression exudes.

Free From the Confines of Your Irregular Heart.

Elizabeth doesn’t like to talk about the day they stopped her heart.
It’s been two months since and it’s as if only and hour has past. Everything about the well sat in plush seats has been still since the night I held her head in my lap, brushing the red through my fingers as her chest heaved and you screamed, hands fumbling with the wheel.
And your palm never moves its stake from her frail shoulder- while we coast through the freeway in our silent box where breath is held. The wilting frame of who I remember her as sits in the passenger’s seat, her sunken blue eyes and milky skin turned towards the sun as it reflects its rays off her auburn locks. She is not in her eyes and I think they zapped her away with the paddles- but suddenly she sighs and says “I never realized the freeway was so beautiful” and I know she beats again.

Send You A Sorry.

I open my eyes and see a billion pine needles parted for tiny dots of light spread generously across the canvas above. The grass is a gentle caress against my ear and it paints its stoke of dew against my cheek. The smell of wet gravel surrounds where my body lay. I stretch my fingers toward the drenched grass, thinking of the days where you and I would lie here summer evenings and watch the ghost wind push the swings. The days we knew every constellation.
The glass is smooth between my fingers instead. Instantly the sky is white and the silence is shattered. High pitched distress blares over my head. And now I see again, but the sounds cut out. Frantically dancing blue, red and orange spin past my arm, bouncing off the glass, jumping to your tiara. It’s twinkling atop your brown curls- still in all their perfection. I listen for your scream. Please, please, please. Your tattered corsage is beside my knee. I need to reach you. There is led on my chest that I cannot see. My hand is all there is to move. Tighter, tighter, the glass slices through my grasp, the drops join the river from me to you. And as more lights dance closer, I think of what a desperate way it is to tell you I’m sorry.