Nov 17

Yellow

He is a river
and the moment when the crayon
on the sidewalk melts under the pressure
of the sun. 

He has never told me so
but I am aware that he sings
and follows trains down their receding
tracks. He chases after whatever possibility
taps him on the shoulder. 

"There is never too much laughter." 
I'm not sure it's true
because my striped socks start to peel
at the edges when I can't breathe during math class
and the quiet girl who sits behind her past friend on the bus 
rarely similes when the radio turns on. 

His eyes in the morning are golden.
They make me long for toast with honey
and a westward facing window with no curtains.