He picked up the phone,
heard the whir of windmills
and wondered about errors of track-lighting
and truth of photosynthesis.
He thought how his mother would chide him
if she knew of his penchant
for burst neon and fresh balloons.

The painted girl sat across the room,
perched on a three-legged stool,
stiletto-feet swinging.
She heard him murmur about blue
and hoped he’d read her eyes,
filling the space
with his purposeful whimsy.

From tangoing alone
to laughing at their growing energy,
their mismatched buttons
and skipped belt loops
became less important
than the exuberance
they thought they left behind.

There were a few hours
a few days ago
that felt green
and slight and light-
I think my feet unsubmerged
just enough from spring mud to kick a cloud
before descending.

I knew even as moments ticked by
and I could barely swallow my verve,
it would not last
just as I knew
there is no such thing as always,
no matter what men say
with their mustachioed appeal.

I miss the green
and wonder
if I’ll ever be smart enough
not to be fooled by silly sweet words-
I think one of these days,
I will sink irrevocably
and won’t even know it.

The chemicals are back,
dancing, rising, playing devil’s fiddle
all over my tender psyche.

I waved them away last week.
But they’re like fruit flies,
feeding on sweet decay.

I tried immersing myself
in copious amounts of cheese and flowers
to ignore the alone- but the alone
wouldn’t leave me be.
Somehow, I tell myself
‘keep moving…’ but there’s a simultaneous
message coming from where the bile rests
telling me to crawl into a hole
and stay there.

It’s not an easy choice.
The voices are fighting,
summer grows near,
and my eyelids hurt.

Golden promises
slipped from broken lockets
but hung on morning mist
and we swore, “always”

which meant as little
as the ant’s picnic,
filling up on summer green
deliciousness lasting into winter,
a memory of hillsides
and windy music
carried for decades.