PANDORA

 He looks at you with wide, brilliant eyes.

sometimes they're brown and sometimes they're green

and sometimes they dance with a little bit of yellow, a liitle bit of sunlight the world hasn't destroyed, not yet.

so you take this boy, take his little yellow, his half smirk, the weight of someone who's seen and done too much at the ripe age of seventeen, and you hide it away, save it, put it in a pocket

open an envelope full of laughter to see that smirk, just once, before you let it go again.

 you bathe this boy in sunflowers,

grey is but a memory

you'll catch the rain on your tongue if you need to,

drink floods of tears to keep them from his eyes,

press yourself into lilies for him to find between the pages

you are only human, a hundred and fifteen pounds of light and a heart full of words.

but how much can you give before you run out?

when no one listens,how much time before the songbird runs out of song.

you were taught to give but no one is on the receiving end and oh god, it hurts.

pressed between the pages, so you can't breathe.

you love this boy, love his little yellow, his half smirk, him at his ripe age of seventeen.

He drinks your dawn and you his dusk.

so the sun exists in your intermingled breathe.

give is passed between inhale and exhale.

you learn to breathe.