Honeysuckle, honeybee,

colors dulled-

so vibrantly.

But we feast on

cherries in the nightlife,

honey.

it's nighttime and the colors are blooming.

Bright red juice

stains our bare-foot feet

but we are humming

and dancing to a cherry-filled beat

and the darkness

it blooms with

flowers in the nightlife,

honey.

irises blooming in the nightlife,

love.

The loveliest things seem to happen

to me

when the night is so thick that

youre only a dream.

(and our world is drowning in cherries.)

Ethan Huxley was a street rat, and in his opinion there were few worse things to be. He'd had his fair share of suffering, too, so these words were not meant to be taken lightly. Being a thief was common. Degrading, especially for a prince. (Well, aspiring prince. Ethan hadn't worked that part out yet, but he was sure he was made to be a royal.) Still, he would rather steal than pay (he had no money), or god forbid beg, like some common pauper. No, Ethan still had his dignity, and as that was pretty much all he did have, he held on to it tightly.

As much as he hated being poor, being a thief did have its merits, one of which was that everyone ignored you. Ethan was thankful for this as he sat in some boxes at the mouth of an alley, eating a borrowed apple and surveying his (hopefully) future subjects as they went about their business.

Stripes.

She averted her eyes when they brought him out to visit with her. She knew what she would see.

Stripes.

They hadn't given him the orange one, but rather the black and white one, covered with lines, dark, light, dark, light. Ugly.

She had the thought that maybe she was the only one who saw the world in color, knew that it wasn't just made up of the shades on his outfit. Black, white. Good guys, bad guys.

Stripes.

Her eyes found his feet and worked their way up, slowly taking in his uniform, the shiny jail number pinned to his shirt.

Stripes.

She looked away before reaching his face. She couldn't handle those pale brown eyes, scruffy beard, handsome face.Wasted.

darkness creeps

shadows play

reminding us

of the end of the day

crickets chirp

peepers peep

the sound of summer

rocks us to sleep

Spring peeks from the cold

of winter, delicate pink

flowers sprouting up

and sending their scent

across open meadows that

rustle with the breeze

sunlight filters through

the newly budding leaves and

places a finger

on a nest of small

birds that chirp and flap the

intricate wings that

long to be in the

air and flying high above

the vibrant pastures

Fear starts in the pit of my stomach, twisting and writhing, refusing to leave me alone. Tiny tendrils reach up, spreading like a wildfire that engulfs me and squeezes tightly, making it hard to breathe, limiting my air. Then I take a deep breath. The panic stops and I go back to my business as if it didn’t happen.

But I know that it did.