cue the sun

Our city cries in bucketfuls of December.
Baby, our neighborhood drowns
in last chance rose petals
and angry Saturday music.
But we hardly even notice
because the sun has fallen
from the top of the tree
closest to the upstairs window and
spills its bronze and ruby blood
all over the carpet in our room,
where we sleep, tangled
in each others' dreamy limbs,
our raw hearts beating
lazily as cars out on
the street make constant noise
and jay birds in the backyard
wreck havoc and sing,
willing winter to play them
another vintage melody.

Your merman eyes used
to drift away from me
every time I tried to
catch a glimpse of
their inexperienced light.
But now they open
and close in a daze as
your boyish lips
move slowly and
your voice asks groggily
if it's time to wake up.

Boy, you were once
a thought I couldn't stand;
an idea with disastrous consequences
wrapped in a teal
scarf with vanilla skin
that went so well
with my darker brown
splayed across it in the morning;
like shiny bottles
of sea-glass cologne,
hiding in the snow,
you waited for me
to trip over your sharp edges,
reflecting like pretty
lost causes and ancient stones.

Boy, it was hard enough
not to melt into another
ill-fated dance every time
we bumped into each other
at the club on West Crossing.
And I'd see you talking
to boys with risky smiles
who I knew would never be
fine with whisky shots and
innocent conversations
under iron and daisy-tinted lampposts.

Boy, you were a knot I couldn't untie,
not even as my fingers
bled apple and blackberry ink,
burning like a furnace,
itching like straw
inside embroidered pillowcases.

Yet, I thought it was
my luckiest day when
I ran into you in
the glossy lobby
outside your office and
spilled my latte all over
your crisp blue shirt.

I remember seeing irritation
flash momentarily in your
honey-wheat depths,
then an amused smirk
pulled at the corners of your mouth
as you took my hand
and said that I had to help you
clean off the drops of
sweet milk cascading
down the length of your collar,
staining your throat.

Boy, I couldn't have
been more thrilled
but you were careful,
made sure I knew what
I was getting myself into;
not another high school
moment of promise rings
and hurried make-out sessions
behind deserted stairways.
No, you were "real life after";
the scary unknown
made beautiful with dark brown
lashes and lips that
could make me do anything in
a tragic moment of reckless fun.

But Brian, I said,
"Cue the sun"
because this was
what I needed to
get lost in;
the glittery
cloud 9 world that
I had been locked
out of for too long.

So you replied,
"Come closer."
And your fingers were
warm on the back of
my neck underneath
my All Star hoodie.
Brian, your body
pressed against mine
in an odd way that,
if time had stopped,
I would've gladly
become an ice
sculpture, as well.

Brian, cue the sun
because your hazel
eyes look best in
their topaz glow.
And I want you to
know that if this is
the last goodbye
we'll ever murmur
against firelight flesh,
our strands brushing in
a blend of chestnut and blond;
if we never collide
again on a sidewalk
somewhere or in a rainbow
club downtown,
under factory smoke and
lovers' stains,
my prince, know that you
were the best I ever had.