Summer eyes Can Create Tomorrow with Winter Boys

Dear Adoles,

I believed you when you told me elephants would dance for me and that owning a kalaidescope was all it takes to be a princess. I used to cry slivers of the sky because only sometimes were your eyes clear enough to see me, and most of the time you were busy carving nautical references into your wrists with blue pen. Ones of ships that fly with pixie dust, and of moons that are so empty they fill themselves with holding today, forever.

  But you forgot to mention that even if you're a princess, crowns can fall off and shatter chandelier fragments on the ground, especially when Winter boys breathe quivers of autumn arrows into your spine, arrows that hurt like needles but look like receding footprints.

                 
            I wanted you to be so good at pretending you loved me that eventually I wasn't impressed with your empty words anymore because they rang rip currents and seashells nonchallantly speckled with truth. 
 
                I met you in Drama class when I swallowed Advil and copper water because stars were twirling on my eyelids and mettallics were popping corners in my vision.
  I was rendered speechless when you got up there and was the worst actor I'd ever seen, more so than me and I failed Drama since my webbed feet pushed me off the
stage anytime I was up there.

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              Falling like planes is exhausting, and do you think winter boy you could catch me soon? With your bitter hands stained cerulean by frostbite and gravity disguised as sleigh rides and breaking ice.

              I climb to the top of swing sets nowadays, and  I try to shatter my goosebumps with scalding waters in hope that for three seconds I can forget;

That fairytales always forget to come true, and that your heart isn't even running through  summer rain. That once you showed me how to grow wings and  that because of you everything hurts in a thousand slivers of broken bone.  That I loved you, and now I'm angry with you but its hard to be when your ashes are fragmented in April weeds, which is totally the wrong season for you. That my comets were crashing long after your fingertips had caught mean  that you taught me that lithium was anemic waves, and that I'm a liar.

  I still love you, but you faded into six weeks ago, with the flames of galaxies dissolving into dust because the sun burned to bright for you, December child.


My freckles were your canvas for a while and you drew anorexic moons and meteorites that really looked like baby sparrows whose wings had healed, but
after you sped into Twilight Zones determined to light up the sky, you were
surrounded by slick yellow lines causing thermal energy to have friction with
windshield wipers.
     
  Teenagers remind me of galaxies and meteoroids because their translucent eyes burn without fuel, but us, are the exception of six billion humans, and starlight infected ribs. We reminded me of universes because even though I was nothing to you
for all of Junior year while I orbited on your axis- no one expected us to be dual survivors, but we were.

        Six weeks ago you would have laughed like the sprinkler spraying rainbow droplets around us when you proposed to me, six weeks ago high school was a distant
waking dream, one that no longer existed except in decades of hindsight.

    Adoles, I'm sitting here beneath the wrong seasons and the incorrect combinations of constellations, waiting for you to come back for me. We were seventeen when you frist walked away, but then you always came back- why does it matter that I'm 2/3 of a century older?

You were my winter boy for the pale petals of sixty three novembers, but the moment your heart stopped beating beneath that upturned Toyota- the seasons changed and I knew you were gone to me.

Adoles, I miss you- and we were us for too long for pretending to not love you being a facade with the capacity of existance, when all I have to do is look at bronze metal on my finger to know the extent of how wrong that is.

    Whose going to take me to see dancing elephants and breathe fingertip fairytales for me when I can't sleep and reminisce on rusted porch swings?
   
    Whose going to finish my tone deaf lyrics while I sing lullabies to October babies in training to become Winter children?

      Do you think 'accidental overdose' on Advil might show me which direction I can find the sky, and those falling planes?

    Home was with you Adoles, and the fairy tales don't belong to me anymore, because they were always ours.

          Come back for me soon, so I can go home again. I'm falling Adoles, ever since you left- just like when we were seventeen and you chased the train tracks and almost didn't come back- would you mind coming back now honey, since for you to catch me , I need you to be here?

          Love always,
              Jordan