I love post-script, thought Benvolio as he sat curled in his favorite armchair.  His favorite music was humming through his airpods into his ears, and as he watched raindrops gather and drip down the windowpane, he felt that he could nearly silence the world through the steady stream of verses twirling with his thoughts.  

Perhaps, he thought, rainy days are meant to teach us what beauty and what hope can be found in our minds and in each other.  Spring carries so many rainy days upon her freckled shoulders, and yet she never seems to fall from the weight; rather, it’s almost like she grows from it.  She brings about dozens of days fluttering with flower petals and the scent of magnolias.  She dances and dances, and she leaps so high she kisses the sky.  

Benvolio, unsure of where his thoughts were flitting their wings off to, stood up to retrieve a notebook from his desk.  It was nearly empty, as he didn’t write often, but he was feeling rather poetic today; it was as if spring were whispering into his ear the melodies that were mixing with his playlist.  When he returned to his spot with a pen in his hand, he began with an address to Rory; he always felt his ideas were best captured in letters.

But he didn’t get past that first name dotted at the end with a comma.  His eyes had strayed to a little sprout of green poking from the soil filling in with rainwater.  There was the tiniest hint of pink clinging to the end of the wisp of green: a bud.

The first of spring’s freckles, just beginning to glow on her cheeks.

Benvolio smiled at that, and thought about the freckles that were scattered across Rory’s nose.

P.S, he began, just under where he had addressed his letter.

I love post-script.

Every day when I walk home from school
I see a woman with her young son
Asking for money by the road.

I stick my hands in my pocket and
Turn my head away.
There is nothing I can do because
I only have three dollars on me.

The Houston heat is relentless
And I am tired.
I open Instagram on my phone as I pass the 
Convenience store
So I can distract myself.

It looks like my country's crazy president
Has done something crazy (again).

Shocker.

I like the post, and concede that
There is nothing I can really do other than a like
Because I am only fourteen.
This is enough. 
(I add a repost on top of the like for my conscience.)

I head to my best friend's house.
Did you know we're in a water crisis right now?
I didn't.
I like that reel, too.

Nothing more I can do.

I walk into her bedroom.
She complains about the state of the world.
Bombs, Iran, Israel
Oil.

We argue, we laugh, we play games
And before we can scroll away from the truth
Her eyes turn to mine, eyes wide.
Real people, she says.
They're dying. What do we do?

I shrug. For now, I believe what I am told.
Test on Tuesday.

Tomorrow will go just about the same way.
I'll walk past that woman on the side of the road
And tell myself there's nothing I can do.

We'll
Seduce ourselves with the sweet lies we're told
Learn how to prioritize the wealth of the one percent
Soothe ourselves with the faint warmth
Of the people not on television
Burning in our kitchen.

I miss when my bedroom walls were purple. 

Cranberry purple, to be specific. 

I was young, 

and moving into my new bedroom 

while my sister stayed in the one next to it. 

We decided to paint the room's walls 

since my parents were moving into the larger room. 

Going to the store into the paint section, 

looking at all the different colors that could be the color of my walls forever, 

I remember not being sure what I wanted as I didn't know how to make up my mind. 

Sometimes I still don't. 

After minutes, I chose something that was similar to purple, as it's one of my favorite colors. 

Cranberry purple is what I chose. 

Its shade really made the vibe better. 

It felt like something I could live in. 

The color didn't hurt my eyes, wasn't too bright,

and it went well with the berrywood carpet. 

My mother and I painted the walls together, 

a little paint got on the floor. 

It was okay, though, since it was my room. 

It was cleanable. 

Until it wasn't. 

Now the color's all gone, 

gone white, and painted over. 

Even the two windows are just one now,

makes everything seem off.

All those memories are fading away, 

but they still stick in my brain,

and it brings me pain.

How could it have turned out this way?

I miss its color.

It brought me comfort,

and now it's just white.

All I see now is white,

and my current bedroom walls,

they have no color either,

it's like 50 shades of gray up here.

Cranberry purple.

A color close to my favorite,

when I don't have a favorite,

at least I don't anymore.

Cranberry purple.

I grew up with that color,

and I wish it could stay

a little longer.

In wrapping your arms around someone,

you're getting a hug, too.

In giving someone else advice,

you're telling yourself what you need to hear.

In writing someone a story or a poem,

the words will fill your heart as well as their's.

In pointing out to someone the twinkling stars,

your eyes, too, will be filled with them.

In all the love you pour into the hearts of others,

the holes in their hope will let drops drizzle

into your own.

My younger cousin put it best, I think.

"Spring is my favorite season, because it has a little bit of everything!"

Rain, sun, clouds.

Cold, cool, warm.

Melting snow.

Yellow daffodils.

Baby birds.

Rainbows.

The thick, rich smell of wet earth.

The sharp, clean smell of grass.

Drizzle.

The sun on your face.

It's a season of change.

Of transition.

Of contrast.

Of new beginnings.

And I'm doing everything I can to make the most of it.