You are periwinkle tinged memories hiding in the sands of time. All nostalgia and heartbreak, shades of blue and gray overcast what was once laughter, once love. Hands that used to hold each other, hidden under blankets, on walks at midnight, soft with the vanilla lotion you used to wear, now refuse to even wave hello. Lost instead in a forever goodbye, but still caught on the other, a burr on our memories.

"Jenny, stop throwing sand at me!" Jimmy pouted as his sister violently dug a hole in the park sandpit.

"How else do you expect me to dig a hole fast?" Jenny retorted as she continued digging.

Jimmy scurried out of the line of fire. He brushed off his clothes as he weaved under the jungle gym, avoiding metal poles and other children. The waves of sand slowed his speed as he trudged along. In the grassy field, his mother sat on a periwinkle blanket under a shady tree a few feet away with their baby brother George. Their mother rubbed suntan lotion on her arms as George stomach surfed on the blanket.

She raised her shades as Jimmy approached. "What are you doing back so soon Jimmy?"

"I don't want to get hit by sand as Jenny digs."

"Alright. There are some juice boxes in the cooler. You can play in the field, just play where I can see you and stay away from the burrs."

Jimmy grabbed a box of apple juice and ran into the field.

The grains of the wheat, as coarse as sand

Are ground into flour, the sustenance of man

Dough as thick as a blanket is rolled out

Certain to satiate, without a doubt

Thrown in the oven, the tray burrs with heat

The shades of pastry, puffing into something good to eat

As a wave of heat puffs out from the oven like an explosion

It emerges, then gets brushed with a thick edible buttery lotion

Periwinkle flower is placed ever so meticulously

On this pastry that is molecularly

The best tasting in all the land

Your sunflower smell sticks to my skin like burrs on socks. A sticky sweet scent, like sweat and suntan lotion. Memories of your curly blonde hair clinging to me like seaweed. Pattering through my brain, your feet leave muddy footprints all over my frontal cortex. I think about hot summer days when I would wrap you up in your froggy towel like a fuzzy blanket after bath time. When you poked your button nose out to ask for kisses, and we snuggled on the couch to watch cartoons. Flowing and receding, the reflections come in waves. I think a lot about those days. About your heart shaped shades and periwinkle ribbons, and the tumultuous laughs during Saturday morning tickles. I think about the hourglass that is our lives, and how each day more sand trickles to the bottom. So I savor those hot summer nights of drippy ice cream cones and chaotic bathtimes and soft curly hair and suntan lotion. I breathe in deeply and take in each memory, each wave, and I hope you never stop snuggling closer to fall asleep on my shoulder.

I'm sitting on your bed watching you rub lotion downs your arms. The smell of vanilla turns around and sits on your green blanket next to me.

"Hopefully you don't have to carry me home this time."

I focus on your face to see you smiling.

"Sorry?"

"Remember? When I got that burr in my foot and you piggybacked me all the way home?"

"Oh right! Yeah."

I laugh with you. Your freckles are like a spray of sand wind-whipped across your face.

Your eyes widen, looking behind me and you wave out the window.

I look out and my heart falls.

"Periwinkle!" Your boyfriend shouts his stupid nickname for you joyfully.

You run to the front door and into his arms.

I knew he was coming today. I was just hoping against hope he wouldn't. Maybe he would get the flu or have to look after his brother or just not want to come.

But here he is.

He swings you around before putting you down and lifting a hand to his forehead. It shades his face so he can see me walk up behind you.

"Hey Celia!"

His smile looks so genuine. His eyes are sparkling and his hair is flopping over his eyebrows. I wish I could hate him.

"Hey."

I smile back.

The hardest part is seeing him look at you. Seeing him love you. It's how I would look at you. You're happy and I wish you weren't. I'm sorry. The worst part of loving you is wishing no one else did.

Your place. Not the new one with the tall shadows and the circular light switches. The old one, with the pink walls your parents chose stamped with purple paint handprints of five-year-old rebellion. With the walls covered with years of your best friend’s narwhal and otter paintings. With dents in the wooden furniture from when you used to secretly roller skate in your room until your mother walked in after a particularly loud crash. With stacks of dusty jars filled with all sorts of seeds, flowers, burrs, and nuts you collect on your Saturday morning mountain walks. Walking through your room is like walking through a museum of your heart, one I can’t help but want to be a part of.

We are cuddled under a fluffy blanket on your bed as we watch How to Train Your Dragon on your computer. Your favorite. Between animated rambles about the movie’s use of prostheses, you run your fingers through the waves of my hair. The vanilla and peach scent of your hand lotion wafts through the air. I lay my head on your shoulder as you pull me in closer. I close my eyes and think I wish we could stay like this forever.

But like grains of sand slipping down the neck of an hourglass, bits of periwinkle sky fall beneath the horizon, making way for a pretty sunset colored with all shades of pink, purple, and longing, the bittersweet sound of a closing book. When the movie ends, I give you my favorite hardcover with post-it note annotations and sepia-colored tea stains. With watery eyes, you tease me for the dog eared pages but when I ask if you like it, you kiss me and say I love it. You walk me to the front door, snaking around stacks of boxes against empty walls. Under the flickering white glow of the porch light we kiss for the last time. I open my mouth to say something, but I change my mind. Instead I say Remember me before getting into my car.

As I drive home with tear-blurred eyes trained on the road, I think to myself Maybe in a different universe.

Maybe in a different universe we could have grown up together. I could have moved here years ago, not just last summer. We could have roller skated together up and down the quiet end of Mulberry Drive. We could have played Mario Kart on the leather couch in your basement and sung bad karaoke of Britney Spears on your ancient silver karaoke machine between tournaments. We could have explored the mountains together, you filling your jars with burrs and me filling mine with shiny rocks. Some of my neon crayon drawings could have been on your wall.

Maybe in a different universe we could have had more time.

Heat came down in wave upon wave where he lived, and the most common plant was the sand burr. All he had for company were the periwinkle flowers, kept from the sun by shades made from a blanket. In the evening he would talk to the flowers as he rubbed a curative lotion into his cracked hands. The flowers knew his history, but never would they tell it. His secrets rested safely in the periwinkle flower bed.

I fall asleep.

I see wondrous clouds

with wondrous colors-

the lightest pink

like the slightest blush

that flushes

one's cheeks.

a lavender

that seems to be far, far away

dreamy, pensive.

a gentle, airy blue,

the loveliest yellow hue

all blending together

like one.

those clouds are of the softest colors-

They are of the softest colors.

A baby blue sky

A pink shirt and tie.

Mint green tea.

Lavender morning breeze.

A peach pile of pancakes,

On mauve, a pale purple plate.

My pastel colors start my day.

I'll grab my periwinkle jacket and be on my way.

I wished for a summery death.

There was nothing sweeter.

To lie in a gentle shade, and die alone,

Watching distant clouds sailing home.

The ground is hard, but the grass is warm,

Mist runs to dew, and a fairmaid lifts its head,

Softly burning, the white turns red.

Once, I lived to love,

And I loved alone,

But from me those days have flown,

The far-off sleep glistens,

With a chanced-upon glow,

To turn away from the blissful image

Is to scorn newer friends,

Changing newer ends.

Spider-nets encircle my now gossamer-gaze,

To turn away is to break the thread,

When I turn away,

In the meadow

you will find me