A flashing of emerald trees fly by,

Rusty brick buildings move just as fast, racing the trees.

Sweat drips from a temple, down a neck, 

Tangling with short streaky hair.

The city of potholes reminds the riders of its name,

Causing nails to dig into a mans arm.

This motion is repeated, this time mostly stable,

And the only release of this pressure

Is when that same light hair is found on a significantly smaller brown eyed girl.

I would never have that blond hair, 

It grew out darker and nappier,

A sea of honey brown that was often confined to a glass cup of hair ties and clips.

I would never live in those same emerald trees.

Traded out for bone dry air, 

Stucco towers that were the living embodiment

Of everything green was not. 

There was a pause in between these two realities

Of green, a green that matched younger brothers eyes

A green that traveled in rivers and plants and soil and farm valleys

A pause of deep rich browns that would later match my hair

A pause of crickets at night and birds in the morning

With crabapple trees that grow along fences and hill peaks.

That was the only pause that seemed to come,

I traded out monstrous trees with ever changing leaves for nicely potted plants

That thrived in sand and drought, tucked away on window seats. 

Crickets for radios that played rain storms, practically begging for the cold

A cold did come, in the form of frozen fingertips 

Attached to hands whose bones bulge and veins strain 

For someone who desired shying away, 

My body presses like it wants to see the other side of my skin.

Constantly wanting to jump out, get out, see it, see it all, get it done

As if it can’t wait for its destined time when all that’ll be left is those same bones

They’re impatient with time 

Those same fingers stained red-

Not blood, due to my sharp fear,

But a series of botch boxed hair dye.

At my neck, short dark hair scrapes at my deep collar bones and curls tightly at my neck,

But I wish it did the same at my ear.

I wish for a many of changes on my body;

The riddance of a series of moles and freckles that contrast greatly against my pale skin.

A grey greek statue swears they’re constellations.

His warm heart refuses to let me pick and prod,

Soft hands grasp at my freezing, red stained, fingers dragging them away from my torso.

I gave him a lobe of my heart, more important to me was the gift of songs I adored.

Boys who shouldn’t be wearing graphic tees,

But hold onto them like they’re holding onto their youth,

Speak poems backed up by the occasional guitar or a trumpet screeching loud.

Their words bring my sister to tears;

My heart swelling as well so I grasp onto that only connection;

The same as those graphic tees on the boys.

My own self feels like time is slipping through my fingers. 

My bones are impatient but I am standing still.

The calender says it is Thursday 

But my mind is on Monday two weeks ago and I’m still sitting in my first period class.

Its four months after the loss of burgundy eyes,

Its four days before I get news that blue eyes is leaving in 7 months.

I hate the idea of due dates.

It gives me a reason to procrastinate because it always seems just as far away as when it was given.

It’s the fear that things will only be good for a certain time

And spoil right after or begin to deteriorate. 

Its a green period that skips over a yellow comma and becomes a red exclamation point all too fast.

It screams and blares and I finish quickly, my writing far quieter than that noise of the calendar. 

It still gets the approval of a lively chat, 

But I long for the cries of praise and pride.

It's a vicious cycle of having no motivation,

Being self reprimanded and feeling terrible

So I don’t want to try harder, 

So I never do;

And receive a curt nod from my peers who were rewarded with a well rehearsed handshake. 

You see, my hands are just too small, just too cold for a handshake,

But my hands… shake

From anxiety

From being anxious about being anxious,

Scared of what could come and what I know never will;

Because it's miles away or 2 plane rides with a layover and 45 minutes of driving away.

I’m scared of being scared but if I’m not scared then things can go so easily.

So easy in fact that that solid handshake becomes a loose grip on time, easier to leave than keep. 

I don’t like letting things go.

Whether it’s that last argument with a less than understanding peer,

An assignment that I know for a fact 2AM on Tuesday could never do the topic justice,

Or the hands of blue eyes, softer than my colder shaky hands. 

I hold onto them tightly, almost as tightly as my grip on time.

I think I may have stolen a series of things from the people I held hands with once.

The pit in my stomach that grips me tightly came from, 

Not the girl she is now, 

But the girl with the chestnut hair I met first, 

Who could have given me the world while I only gave her a sunflower. 

My hoarse voice comes from the night I sat with a boy who hadn’t changed since 9th grade

But was more than happy to give advice as if he had watched the world burn and

Gave hints as to how we would all perish. 

My bubbling anger and turned back comes from my clouded sky, 

Who could have punched a wall and sped, 

And I would have still gripped the necklace he gave me every time I was terrified and missed him.

In fact he did and so did I.

I’m truly unsure if I accepted these things with opens arms and 

Swallowed them whole like they were warmth to a freezing wind, 

Or if I stole them and refused to return them; 

Which is why I feel a chill even after months 

Of not holding their hands.