Dear Friend (zone),

A little over two years ago, I fell in love.

(At least I think that's what love feels like. I was seeing in color.)

A year and a half ago, I decided to let him go.

("We're better off as friends," I told myself.)

A year ago, I found a window of hope: he said hello (again).

(What a pleasant thing to experience: to see in color--again.)

Six months ago, I was in darkness: she said hello.

(He was seeing in color while I kept my eyes shut.

I didn't want to see.)

And now I'm (still) in the gray.

But through all this, my dear, you've been there for me.

Tom had 500 Days of Summer; I've had 822 days of spring.

(Yes, it's because I've been sprung for that long.)

Oh, friend (zone)... my very, very, best friend.

I know you'll be with me until the very end.

Thank you(?), my dear, for all of the above.

Written with love (and a bit of hatred),

A companion (and victim)

Gypsy

You've heralded me
"The Sojourner,"
doomed to transient fame.
Every situation calls for
miniscule feats--
tiny success stories that
I hold so dear
with such fleeting promise.

Call me
Wilted Tulip
or Decomposing Flesh;
something that was once
lavishly assumed and consumed;
decadently spoiled and cooed.

I can't take it slow

You,
of whom I felt loved to death.
Upon our first meeting,
You
embraced Me like a close friend,
when I was still unfamiliar to touch
and grossly deathly afraid of the
skintoskin.

Oh
You.
I loved that,
and I loved how I met
You
under no special circumstances.
When
I was I,
and Me was Me.

You,
of whom I was drawn.
But you discovered the secret of Me.
(MeplusMe)
It was no lie; I couldn't hide it.
My contents spilled and leaked,
and I was there limping
on the floor of the counselor's office,
drenched in foreboding lingering regret
etched onto a memo pad:

Your Sophomore Schedule,

and it was done.

You
and Me split.
(we split kindly; the way that lovers do NOT do.)

You
discovered my secret--
my name is anonymous;
unknown and devoured by Your sumptuous lips.
my heart spilled that day,
and it rained of purples, greens, and reds.
and personalities, and characteristics, and apparently
our forgotten memories.

Your
mind had been reset;
and
You
asked me years later,
about how we had met.

I am sorry that I told You.
And I am sorry that I really know now,
that all that we had in the past is perfectly null.
Because...
You
can't notice me.

- - - - -

This is not a love poem. (Hm, I hardly ever write love poems...) This is a friendship poem about someone I've known for a few years. This is also about the difficulty of finding my identity (in the most obvious of ways). And the capitalized "you" is NOT making a religious reference. I make a play on capitalization in this piece. Everything (grammar, spacing, punction) is important. At all times.

It's always about you, isn't it. You can't even remember...