I remember when the trees changed color.
It was in the fall, when the warmth
Of the tender, honey sunshine
Lingered lightly upon our skin.
We sat, on your back porch,
Chewing that sticky, pink bubblegum
From the convenience store around the block
And we talked.
I held nothing back, not with you.
I was a waterfall of words
And you were the cool, green pool at the bottom
Seamlessly engulfing my torrent of speech.
Sometimes I think that silence and cacophony
Were meant to be together.
We were, at least.
I remember looking up to the sky,
Thinking that the days of blue were fading,
And telling you so.
You reached out a gentle hand
And plucked a leaf from seemingly thin air.
It was the color of the sun.
You held it out to me, and I took it
Careful not to crush its fragile frame.
"Here," you said
"Blue sky turns to gray,
But green leaves turn to gold."
I let the wind snag it from me
And carry it back over the roof.
You blew a quivering pink bubble
And when it burst the sound echoed over the hills.
Silence and cacophony, side by side.