April--full of showers of warm, sticky rain, puddles deeply soak shoe soles, flowers barely bud before being nipped by frost before the frost turns to dew and suddenly the world becomes green and lush. April showers have come and gone, April has come and gone.

April thirtieth, the singular circadian rhythm prior to the turn of summer. The dewy day before the turn over of a year, a year on this earth in which Sunshine has dominated the horizon. Another year of amber waves and freckled skin. Another three hundred sixty-five days of swaying hips and readily reading eyes. Another five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of intriguing introspection and unrelinquishing reflection. Countless moments of pure, unabridged Sunshine.

The first of May, at an unknown hour, probably in the dim hours of dawn, Sunshine was pulled from below the skyline to become the focus of the world. Her brilliant blazes of bright light blinding out even the darkest of shadows. And yet, the years following the birth of beautiful Sunshine, were filled with darkness that sent clouds to overcast her light with doubt.

Doubts of her worth, doubts of her world, doubts of her light.

April was spent in solitude, cloud cover rarely shed to allow rays of sunlight. Her illumination was spent on the distress of a dear friend. Sunshine has been a firm friend. Her radiance dimmed ever so slightly by the exhaustion of foreboding, inevitable loss.

Days spent with Darcy, nights spent with Darcy, hours spent with family, minutes spent with me. Minutes cherished even more, moments so memorable simply for the scarcity of them, each breath pushed past her lips and flush of her cheeks forged into the mind as short-lived distraction in times of weariness.

Tolling my mind and tugging at my heart muscle, Sunshine. Visions of cherry red plump lips with pleas of pleasure flowing from hitched breaths of desire, rogued skin covered in goose flesh with writhing limbs. Her body under mine intrusively tugging me from responsibility. My mind, only a composite of her. Mirages of doe eyes with whines of 'pretty pleases with cherries on top' for another kiss goodbye, momentary mingling over hurried breakfast with heavy-lidded tiredness.

April has not been without Sunshine and yet April has not been without storms. Storms of sudden mind-numbing nightmares that force the untangling of bodies to creep behind locked doors to burning showers and stomach emptying nausea. Storms of unreasonable envy that hinder the tangling of minds to creep over locked fence gates to promised langs of trust and adoration.

I envy the withering state of a matured woman. The wrinkled skin and weakened muscles, the wise mind and warm heart. I spite the fading life of an elder. The consolation and attentiveness of kin, the solitude and solace of death. I desire what I have not, Sunshine.

I crave to hold again the passion of which I know to be her's. The priority of her heart is what I want most. The longing stare of stunned observation that glints her evergreen eyes, the focus of her plush kisses and heart swelling embraces. I seek out the comfort of her that I do not require, I am not where she is needed most, I loathe that truth.

Waiting rather impatiently, streetlight throwing light onto the darkening streets below, at the wooden table of my kitchen--foot tapping against warped floorboards and thumbs drumming together. The thick air anticipation heavy in my lungs, anticipation of the light knocks of her fist at the discolored door. Anticipation of her coming home to me.

Vase of outseason sunflowers and brown paper wrapped present rest on the chipping counter in my peripheral vision. Is it regifting if she refused to keep it the first time?

An entire night of her luminescence--no hurried half-hearted conversing or ignored urges. Slow and steadfast kisses, calm caresses in dim light, muted melodies as the soundtrack to a night worth the wait.

The taps that rape against the door have my love muscle quickening to a thumping rhythm. My strides are long and uncareful as the wooden floor creaks beneath my feet. Each breath caught in my throat and hitched as I picture her nimble figure standing on the other side of the threshold--sundusted amber waves tossed about by the gentle breeze, fingers drumming on her thighs, toe of boots tapping the metal below them, her lip brought between two sets of teeth to roll and bite at it as she awaits the twisting of the handle and the appearance of my apparition.

My hand falls to the handle, gripping it tightly before turning to look over at the swirling sun shapes sloppily drawn onto brown paper bag wrapping and the flourishing sunflowers brought in from out of state. If she's Sunshine, I suppose I am her sunflower. I always reach higher than the surroundings to seek out her light, face tilted to feel the warmth of her rays, growing steadfast from her energy. I suppose I am her sunflower, if she's Sunshine.

I let out a quick breath to ease the sudden rush of nerves that flood my system as I twist the handle to her. I lose my breath all over again, the oxygen rips from my lungs at the sight of her. Her radiance is so incredibly new and somehow familiar.

"Your hair-" I start. No more stardust brushed over crimson curls, pure scarlet flows from her scalp, blown out and styled, a renewing trim and vibrant restoring of hue. Her hair, no longer blonde. I stammer as I go to reach out to bring it between my fingers in shock before pulling away in remembrance, "It's so-"

"Red?" She snickers at my shock. Using her fingers to tuck elongated framing pieces behind her ears.

I simply nod in response. I take the chance to bring her whole appearance into my perception, I want to commit every detail to memory. Her skin seemingly more freckled, more bright. The opulence of her sage irises more vivid, contrasting shades shown more readily. The spiral of her hair more defined, coloration more focused. A fitted white top with a moss button down thrown over it with a pair of cut off denim shorts and worn out high top trainers. Sweet and simple, simply Sunshine. Impossible to not stare, my heart flutters as I take long intakes of air to slow its unrelenting pace.

Her steps and serene voice pull me from my trance, "Do you not like it?"

"No," I practically shout, "I really, really like it. It's beautiful. I lo-," I catch it before it slips out, "I can't look away. You're so fit."

Her brows furrow at the final statement, "Fit?"

"Sexy. You look incredible, went from a blonde bombshell to ginger snap. Proper fit." I exaggerate the accent of my voice as I explain.

"Ah." She nods back.

I pull her hand to intertwine our fingers as I lead her to sit down at the table, pausing after a few steps to place my free hand over her eyes. Several short giggles escape her lips and I feel the rushes of air against my wrist as they spill from her.

"Sunshine, what're you doing?" She questions as I continue to lead her to sit in the chair.

I press a kiss to her freshly revived tresses atop her head, "Keep them closed."

"You've got it boss." She mocks my demanding tone.

I shake my head lightly as I step over to her gift, taking the rough paper into my shaking grasp and the vase into the crease of my arm, resting it in the crook of my elbow. I place it down lightly on the table. I watch as her eyelashes flitter at the unknown sounds. I can't help but continue to stare at her in this moment, the flashes of realization that I've had up into this moment are begging to be admitted, the comprehension of how crazily I've fallen for her and the gravity of the hold she has on my timid heart are tearing up my throat to pluck the strings of my vocal chords to sing out to her the deep devotion I carry around in my chest.

"Can I open my eyes?" She pleads, "Pretty please," a sort of seduction added to the twang of her voice, "With a cherry on top?"

I groan at her phrase, knowing it will force me to fold my hand and relinquish my poker face. Hating that if she begged me to tell her the motivation behind my every move I would do it with the simple utterance of, 'pretty please with a cherry on top.' Loathing that I've allowed myself to feel for her what I promised myself I'd never do again.

"Alright," I cave, "Open up."

A gasp leaves her tinted lips, "Thank you! But, um, what's the occasion?"

My brow knits together in befuddlement, "The occasion? Sunshine, don't you know what the date is tomorrow?"

Her fingers tug at the cuticles of her nails as she thinks, "I can't say I do, actually."

"May first." I say matter of factly.

Her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates, doe eyes so innocently unaware. "I can't believe, no, it can't be, I-" She quickly pulls her phone from her pocket to illuminate her facial features with the present date. April 30th. "It really is."

I can't stop the loud laugh that effortlessly flows out into the air between us, "Sunshine, you really didn't know?"

"I really didn't." She squeaks out through fits of giggles.

I finally sit down in the chair next to her and take her hand in mine to press a plush kiss to her knuckles, "Happy birthday, Sunshine," I gush before adding, "Well, almost, just a few hours shy."

Her bottom lip pulled between her two front teeth as she smiles widely, "Thank you, Harry."

Harry. So rarely does she say my name, so infrequently do those two syllables slip from between her pinkened lips, so seldom does my love muscle lose its natural rhythm to gain an arrhythmia that matches the tempo of her voice, that matches her muttering of that five letter word. Harry.

"Well," I raise my eyebrows, "Open it."

Her nimble hands fall to the vase, turning it to glance at each singular petal, her sight so focused on the groove of each ray floret, the divot of the disc floret and the gradual switches in hue, the strength of the thick stem and edges of each connected leaf.

"Beautiful." I watch as her lips pucker together before falling back apart as she expresses her mind in a single word.

She then carefully sets it back upon the wood and takes the paper into her grasp, "Mmm," she hums, "Sunshines."

Her fingers tenderly dig beneath the tape to release the paper from its folded state, being sure not to rip the drawings inked onto it as she slides out the gift from its sheath.

A mild smile spreads across her face, lifting her reddening cheeks and narrowing her eyes as she looks at it in reminiscence. The match to an tireless light now resting in the palms of her hand, the bridge that brought together souls that could have otherwise been extinguished of the passion between them.

"Sinatra." Her smile doesn't budge as she looks to me from the vinyl.

My lips curve up to match hers, "Don't you dare return that," My earnestly serious tone subdued by the lifted corners of my mouth.

"Never." She pledges as she removes the vinyl from her hold to wrap her arms around me, "Oh, Harry, I love it. Thank you."

I hiss at her words, practically cringe in pain, for a mishearing of her would have melted me to a mere puddle of undeniable passion that would seep into the cracks of the floor to remain a permanent reminder of my heart's utter weakness at her feet. I force back the lump lodged in my throat to speak out feebly, "Anything for you, Phoebe."

Phoebe. So rarely do I say her name, so infrequently do those two syllables slip from between my pinkened lips, so seldom does my love muscle lose its natural rhythm to gain an arrhythmia that matches the tempo of my voice, that matches my muttering of that six letter word. Phoebe.

The meager mention of her by anyone sends my head spinning so eagerly that my balance is lost. She is the driving force of my mismatched heart, so cold to the world and yet burning for her.

Her lips press against my throat travelling up to my ear, "Dance with me."

Not a request, a demand. No timidity in her vocals, confidence and certainty as to what she desires. A fire behind her that feels newly fueled, her light somehow brighter and unconsciously hotter. Perhaps the restoration of her locks has fooled me into seeing her for who she's always been, or perhaps she is becoming the person she's hidden from the world in full force, the shade of her hair an afterthought of a transformation that's genesis was internal and was forcibly viewed as external, the kindling of her soul flashed red hot so the flames radiate through her skin.

"Is that a request or a command?" I tease as my hands fall onto her hips.

She pulls away from the crook of my neck and peers up at me with a pout, "Come on, put the record on, pretty please."

I raise an eyebrow to show my interest but only if I hear the end of her signature plea.

Several curls are taken in her fingertips and tugs them lightly as she presses hot open-mouthed kisses onto my jaw, "With cherries on top?"

"Okay." I hum out in satisfaction. I release my hold on her and step back to grab the vinyl, feet padding across the wooden floor over to the record player, slipping the disc from its sheath and placing it down before sliding the needle to force notes to be hushily sung out of the speaker.

Sinatra's rendition of "All or Nothing at All ' plays quietly as I meet her in the kitchen, her routine of flicking off each light but only leaving a singular lamplight to illuminate the makeshift dance hall making my heart rush as the lyrics settle in the depths of my mind.

'If your heart never could yield to me, then I'd rather have nothing at all.'

The funneling of each word as my hands find their home at the small of her back. Her arms draping over my shoulders to twirl the locks at the nape of my neck between her nimble digits.

'If it's love, there ain't no in between.'

The warmth of her breath brushing over my skin and leaving gooseskin behind. The glint in her eye and the shadows of her face from the single lightsource.

'Don't you smile or I'll be lost beyond recall. The kiss in your eyes, the touch of your hand makes me weak.'

The flutter of her lids as her head rests on my shoulder, the shapes she traces over the fabric of my shirt. The way her hand slowly falls to rest on my bare chest, the plushes left behind on my cheek as we sway.

"Edith isn't going to be here for very much longer, Dee is in pretty rough shape over it. I know I need to be with her, but I just-" her voice is quiet and more anxiety filled than before, "I've missed you."

"I won't lie, I've missed you," I start, unsure of where this sudden confession came from, "I just want you to do what you believe is best."

She nods slowly as her head falls back against my chest. The song slowly fades out as the next one begins, the crooning of Sinatra behind a comforting hold and slightly parted lips, a soundtrack to swaying hips and spinning feet, the musicality behind deep connection.

The dancing slowly turned to a still embrace, which turned to basking in busses of soft mouths. Slowly backing onto the couch and laying as the vinyl plays on repeat. Her presence is such a light, a light that brightens my view.

A cell once pitch black, nothing in sight but a single drop of sunlight shining in from a lone window is now fully illuminated to the fullest extent. The light refracts off the littered glass fragments left behind by alcohol induced nightmarish creatures, disfigurements of the past. The ground enveloped in glass shards now a luminescent route, a navigable path visible that will tear the calloused skin off of the soles of my feet and tear through the depths of my conscience to reveal that the key was in my grasp the whole time. I've held it close to my heart, it rests in the cavity of my chest against my beating love muscle, the key was love. It was love all along.

I love her, I love her to pieces. Her light has pierced my soul and I so sincerely admire and love her. I love nothing so well in this world as I do her, is that not strange?

Our time is passed quietly, bouts of banter that slow to sweet whispers with silk caresses, resting on the velveteen material as our slow, steady breaths collide to tangle together.

Careless whispers of near honesty.

"Where have you always wanted to travel?" I inquire.

She purses her lips in thought before they peel back into a grin, "Somewhere busy, somewhere where I could be lost, like New York."

Silent whimpers of worshipping.

"Favorite place to eat?" Her voice peaks.

I shake my head with a slight eye roll, my answer seemingly obvious, "A diner or cafe. Reliable, safe, always delicious."

Desperate pleas of devotion.

"Worst nightmare you've ever had?" I raise a brow in curiosity.

She huffs out, "This phone just continues to ring, no matter how many times I lift it from the hook. It wasn't outwardly frightening but the ambiguity of it all makes me shiver."

She rests on my chest, her fingers tracing over the inked patterns of my skin. She wriggles her fingertips ahead of her eyes, the jade slightly crossing as she observes the bareness of her unpolished nails.

She slips down out of my arms' hold around her back as she shimmies down the couch and pads over to the tote bag that rests haphazardly near the door.

"What're you up to?" I call out to her.

"Painting my nails." She announces back.

She comes back to straddle my hips, my back resting against the arm of the couch as I lean back to peer up at her. A small bottle of a perfect day's sky rests in her hands.

The color is light and fresh, a summer's day. The hot air broken by light breeze, clouds overhead are swirling bounds of cotton candy, the sun shining bright as one rests upon a lush lawn holding the one they love close. Hands point to imagined shapes in the clouds, fingers intertwined together overtop one's chest, ideations of future tumble from darkened lips of cherry.

Her voice speaks out as she twists off the lid to reveal the pigment soaked brush, "You know, they say all good writers live in New York. The successful ones always seemed to end up there. They stay there for a while and then end up in the mountains, the poets die at these beautiful lakes with the peaks in the horizon, they just cry and cry until all their tears are spent and all that's left for them is death. They surround themselves with the beauty of the earth and never tell anyone about it directly, all the tales of red roses and wisteria travel through the grapevine. People say, 'Oh, he adored the cliffside pools.' and, 'Supposedly she died with a red rose freshly picked in her hand.' Isn't that simply the most poetic way to die, surrounded by the muse of mother nature?"

The pigment is spread across each long nail as she continues to ramble about various stories she's heard and the many books she's read. Her mind wanders off but for once she clues me in on her travels through the countless neurotic connections within her brain. Her space cadette tendencies are no longer solitary.

Caught up in her soothing voice and beautiful body, I am startled by the painted stripe of the sky on the fingernail of my pinky. Her laugh is mischievous and short, loud snorts fill the air. I stare down at the hue, a reminder of her wherever I go.

"Do the whole nail." I nudge her with my elbow to regain her attention.