You are the drops of summer rain shimmered gold on skin. You are the child too young for my bitter heart, my yellow bird, the last bloom of August. I knew I was in love with you after the first time I heard you laugh in your sleep. Every song is a melody shaped by your lips. The same lips that brush my forehead when I curl to by side. The same lips that shot an arrow at my back as I walked away. I was too proud to turn around. Your laugh will always be one of my favorite things. Dulcinea "Those who have been told the truth should not be taken for those who have been scorned." The sound of my name fell from your crooked lips. Seemingly foreign, yet easily interwoven into ringlets framing my perception. You speak each syllable sunshine mixed with the awkwardness of the moon reflecting brilliance no matter the cadence. For a fleeting moment, in the melody of the occasion, I too am fooled. I see myself birthed from clam shell, goddess gripping bow and arrow, my words woven into golden strings. You tricked me. It isn't just your sycophantic words and slips of tongue. It is in the way I see my reflection, the shine of myself mirrored in your clouded eyes, a strange smile readily returned. The name you give me, a gift, more beautiful than I can ever be. Continuance You didn't leave a note, but two days before you killed yourself you gave me your grandmother's watch, told me you never wore the dented heirloom and it didn't fit your slim wrists, said, it would look better on me. When I pointed out that it no longer worked, you shrugged and said simply, "time is a silly thing." You looked in the mirror before you did it. You cut off all your hair in misshapen awkward chunks, some spots clean to your scalp. Your mother decided on the closed casket. At your funeral I stand consumed by the list of things I didn't know about you, overwhelmed by the uselessness of words and the futility of remorse, devastated by the continuance of the ordinary.