Different yous

The clock is speaking in the sky, and it’s 3:20 PM.  April’s light changes they way the sky can go from cool to warm, in seconds. Colors touch the ground. Drowning soil. The change is felt on the first layer of  skin, and seen in the pages blown by the wind.
The clouds are walking. White blue clouds walking in patterns. Spinning, colliding, twisting, coiling patterns of the different you’s.

The You I Think of While Smoking a Cigarette.
The sound of a working woodpecker is heard above. This is the beginning of spring, and I only because I started wearing flowers again. The changing western green leaves show the existence of interruptions. They are white clots carried by moving waves, spreading with the help of light. I have seen these white clots change the leaves twice now. They change so easily. No effort, only time. This would have been your second time watching the leaves change too.
The You Who Becomes an Impulse.
It’s only Tuesday and that impulse of you is happening more often. It happens when I am alone in the bathroom,  looking in the mirror. A thousand reflections of myself are seen inside my eyes. And the longer I look inside, their existence becomes spinning suns, and that is the impulse of you.
The You I See in Every Page.
It’s only Saturday morning, and I’m buying a book because it reminds me of you. It’s something you would read, maybe you already read it.  It smells like something you would fall in love with.

The You Who Taught Me War.
The bathtub sounds of heavy water. Loudness only grows because of the 2 AM silence. Thoughts run on their own energy. Solitary is something I know because I pay attention to it. A war is something that happens because of solitary, and I only know this because of you.

The You On A Different Wavelength.
I received your letters today. And I found a truth I was not looking for and I cried reading the first paragraph. For the first time I was not looking for myself in your writing. For the first I loved you without any anxiety.
The You Seen In My Eyes.
I talked to you for the first time. I had spent the day without my phone, and once it was 3 AM I decided to check it. I got stuck looking at the date.  April 16, your birthday. I put the phone back down and looked at myself in the mirror, and I saw you. Not your face, or anything but your eyes as mine. And I know I don’t have your eyes, I have mom’s, but just during that time I had your’s.
The You I Always Call.
The bright light of the bathroom made me afraid to close my eyes. A glassy fear slipping into the past, when I lost you.  But, without any other thought I call you. I say happy birthday and I can’t help my voice from cracking. You don’t say anything, but really I can’t hear you, and I hold myself before I can say anything else. I ask how you are, but I know you’re doing great. I tell you I am fine, but I wish I could see you. You ask me what I am up to at 4 AM, and I reply laughing, because I know you know exactly what I’m doing.  And I can’t stop laughing.
The You I Am I Afraid To Love.
I tell you I have to hang up, and will try to call at least once a week. But I know that’s a lie, and you do too.  
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