Sat on wooden floor boards I'll let the blood spill from my veins that once housed so much inebriation and insufferableness. With poor posture and poorer presence I'll steal away the icy injuries that tarnish my once polished heart straight from my chest to place in her hands. I'll place my burden in her hands until they melt and drip into the cracks of the planks below us to never ruin me again.

Sat her in her weathered rays, her precious light that no cloud could ever cover, I'll give myself to her to see. I'll finally pull away from the barren ground and reach fully towards the sky, my stem strong and thick, my leaves virivesent and outstretched, my petals drenched in the hue of her, my flower so eager to look her in the eye and blossom. She is my Sunshine and I am the sunflower that snags any nutrients that her generousness will provide. She is essential and she is mine.

Her luminance so brilliantly blazes my brittle skin, not incapcitated by shadow of doubt or cover of falisites. She finnecked with the lock with the make shift key that she fashioned from spare parts of her bleeding heart until the gears shifted in that way just right to allow the prison door to be casted open and for her to chase after my arms' hold.

She's coming home, she's done her time. With all my love I placed a ribbon the color of incandescent illumination around a tree she claimed our own. A tree that gives with no hesitation and grows without remorse. Her letters, writings so beautifully tragic and yet no less affluent, detailed her care without a word said. The gentle scribble of her penmanship so sloppily flawless and honorable, she had never a doubt of her devotion and yet still questioned mine.

And so, without a second thought, I did as I was told, I wrapped my arms around the trunk and embraced it so tightly it pained my weakened love muscle. A band of pure and unabridged sunlight draped across the chipping bark of our tree. I wait impatiently as I watch the tarnished golden bus carry her fragile soul nearer and nearer, my toes tapping in fever and my heart racing in desire. I have waited and waited for what feels like years to finally catch a glimpse of the beauty of her holistic self.

A work of art to be treasured--with amber waves now only dusted with the shine of her phantom soul, eyes so verdant that meadows of flowers bow in her presence for her beauty is ten fold, freckles scattered like stardust across the porcelain craftsmanship of her figure, and her smile. Her smile most of all, one that reaches her eyes to leave crinkles at the corners and scrunches on her nose.

The vehicle pulls to a stop, an inelegant halt. The tempo of my toes competing with my racing heart, I peer in search of the glow that follows a saint as perfect as her. Muffled shouts and cheers crawl through the cracks of widows, the driver exhausted for the journey and uncaring of their passengers shouts her name.

But I cannot be the arms she falls into. I'm unable because I sit still, key in her hands, waiting on that gastly bus. For she is the key to my heart and without her I remain in prison, to serve a sentence I've come to know as unjust and inhumane.

And the realization comes that I wrote letters identical to her own, my penmanship of half cursive all capital font turns to chicken scratch as my desperation engulfs me. Crumpled notes that pile in the shadowy corner of my cell prove my undying admiration. I begged her, unapologetically and humiliatingly fell to my knees with each swipe of a pen, as I recorded my devilish pinings for her to tie a ribbon the color of her light around the tree that she claimed as ours.

And now as we both set off the buses simultaneously and race into each other's arms, we find a hundred yellow ribbons around that damned tree and a chorus of cheers that strike up from the damned buses that we abandoned with flutter hearts.

So now my calloused hands fiddle with a makeshift key forged from the shattered glass of my icy heart to force the gears to shift just right. I mangle the devices that hold me back, hold me hostage, I am going to push this door to fly open so that I can fly into her warm embrace.

"My Sunshine," I start with a croaking voice as I view her full faced grin of pride, "I want you to know me. I'm glad I know you and so I want you to see everything with a light so bright that I never have to look you in the eye with shame again."

Her body fits in mine like a lock and key, forged only for the other's accommodation. Her voice soft and full of silk serenity as her sniffles relent to allow her kind words, "Illuminate me, Sunshine."

... . . . . . .

Snow flushes the world a bright white as I stumble around with a trumpet case in my grasp. My haphazardly placed steps match the clumsiness of my half-assembled ensemble, my shirt not fully done up and bow tie left untied as I run out to the depot where the car is parked.

I'm late, I cannot be late.

The engine roars as the smoke is thickened by the melting of crystalized water, blurred vision out of frantic need to be prepared.

I'm late. I cannot be late.

Slammed door as I practically toss the case across the backseat and plop onto the leather interior.

"Ready, my love?" Her voice asks kindly--ot an inkling of irritation, not a fraction of frustration.

I thoughtlessly respond, "Just drive." A stern set of eyes reflected off the rearview sends a shaky plea added, "Please."

"Here we go," my father's voice lightens to exhale joy.

The clicking of fastened belts. The fidgeting of buttons up. The clicking of unfastened belts. The leaning over the center console to be aided in the tying of a bow. The feeling of anxious elation, of relaxed preparation that can only be discovered after hours upon hours of practice and the remembrance that the journey is now out of your control.

Running over the sequences of valves required to be pressed. Visualizing the breaths taken to perform a piece to perfection. Humming lyrics to be later sung out for an auditorium of patrons.

Perfection--the necessity. Mistakes--absolutely intolerable.

The time flashes across the dash. I'm late. I cannot be late.

A knowing nod that meets the unease of my face that shows only a fraction of my nerves. The pressing down of the gas, the jolt that speeds us forward faster and faster.

Fingering the piece, insinuating the growing nausea in the pit of my gut and the need to relieve myself of it. Recalling the notes, proving that no amount of practice would ever be proficient and the need to distract myself from it. Mouthing the words, revealing that constant praise is not sufficient and the need to do anything to gain a sense of achievement.

The screech of tires at the slamming of brakes. The fishtailing of the vehicle. The inevitable flip of my orientation. The crunch of the top. The shocked screams of my father, the bloodcurdling belts of my mother. The flash of life's memories. The cut to black.

The final thought--I'm late, I cannot be late.

The revival.

The first thought--I'm late. I cannot be late.

The shock.

The snapping of fingers to direct my attention. The ringing of my ears and shooting pain in my head. The palm brought up to an uglied eye to reveal crimson life staining each crease and crack, spreading to leave worrisome washes of a hideous hue.

Scarlet scarring of self-serving situations.

The sting left behind from my measly cut is sent away as I begin to stand, only to be held down by the medic attempting to reveal my injuries. The rushing of my thoughts that were previously prohibited by the burn in my brain--where is my mother, what's happened to my father?

"W-where," I start with a hoarse voice stunted by an unrelenting headache.

The medic simply shakes her head and continues to access my uncooperative body. All I can do is dart my eyes ferociously to flash my vision--scanning, searching for the souls that shed a piece of themselves to mend into me.

And finally--terrifyingly, tragically--the shake of the medic's head and the slight quiver in her lip, it all makes sense. It all clicks into place like the latching of an unused seatbelt--black body bags.

Black body bags. Bags, two. Wheeling into an ambulance. A dark shadow--the shadow of death, of loss--casted over the souls that now have shed their earthly shell to now flee into the heavenly clouds that continue to swiftly shower sacredly soggy sets of spinning snow.

I'm late, I cannot be late, and yet I'm far too late.

They're gone.

I never got to say goodbye.

Their last words.

'Ready, my love?'

No, never. I never was ready. I'll never be ready.

'Here we go.'

Why did you have to go? Where is 'here'? Am I meant to be there too?

My last words.

'Just drive.'

'Please.'

No goodbyes, no love yous, no see you laters. Nothing. Only a demand with an added insincere nicity.

The breaking down--the earth shattering sobs that release trails of bloodridden tears, wounds never washed clean. The tears never run clear, there will always be a remnant of the devastation that follows each saltine drop that drips down my pathetic cheeks.

"B-bye M-om an' Da-d. I lo-ve you."

. . . . . . ...

"And so now," the cracks of my voice ache my breaking heart, "I cannot even look at the thing that killed them. Not on the street, not in the mirror, without that dread, that guilt overtaking me."

Still shivering arms drape around my shoulders, fingers running through my hair. Only then do I notice the steady stream of sorrowful showers that scatter across my face, only then do I notice the shake of my breaking voice and the quiver of my lips. Only then do I notice the weight lifted from my shoulders.

The burden, it's gone.

Whispers spill from her lips, "Shhh," she hushes, "It's okay. Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry."

My hands lifted to find the back of my neck, taking her own in mine to pull myself away, "It's not something to be sorry for, thank you for listening to me. Thank you for getting to know me, even the ugly."

Her lips press unsteady plushes of pure perfection across my salted skin, mutters of pride and preservation hit my ear in waves of warm whispers. The courage grows and melts the ice of my heart and dissolves the welded armour over my chest to reveal the thawing and thoroughly thumping love muscle that's rhythm is solely for her.

I, thump. Love, thump. You, Phoebe, ta-thump.

Skies of blue chips away from raw fingers to drop inconceivably small dustings of inconceivably important moments of, 'Promise? Pinky.' Her nails imperfect in saturation with a single exception, the final finger of a single hand--the polish on her pinky. It shines like the sky of a perfect summer's day--the sky a host of cotton clouds and dripping with welcoming wrappings of weathered warmth, the surroundings a clearing, a warm meadow of lush green grass and amber waves dusted with Sunshine, brilliant blazes of bright light wrapped around the horizon and the sweet smell of the perfume ever present in my dreams that follow the crashing of two spinning bodies into tall, soft grass to tumble together with lovesick sips of each other and worshipers of the soul that the temple of a body hosts.

But a cloud, stark and grey, must be pushed aside for all of this to occur. No dreams scented with Sunshine or presses of lips can begin without those prepossessing protrusions of lustrous luminosity. That cloud has to be dissipated.

The sailor, he sits and stares up at the sky as he waits for his kindred siren to crash through the waves to reveal her vibrancy. He stares and stares at the ominous cloud cover as it shapes into what he dreads--the bottle. The neck thin until it spreads into a holder of unsavory spirits. He blinks it away when the splash that releases the sounds of siren song that he's been craving finally occurs.

Splashes of Sunshine.

"I've just got um-," hesitation overtakes my vocal chords, halting my release, stopping the turn of the key and prohibiting the crank of gears, "I just- I've got to explain myself, properly explain myself. Why I drink and why I'm actually here.

"I- I started drinking right after the accident, after I'd been moved into my grandparents' home in England. They're quite posh--strict and stern. My guilt was already too much to bear but it continued to pile on as their words and actions got more posh--strict and stern. First it was the yelling, the reminders of what I'd caused."

'It's your fault he's gone.'

With swift smacks and thunderous shouts.

"Then it was their brutal honesty, it wasn't tough love, I used to think it was but I think I know better now. I was always told how what I'd always wanted was a waste of time, that I should simply give up and do something proper with my life."

'You're a fool to think that piece of shit guitar and baseless dream.'

With cracking wood and eager retorts.

'Only a mother as idiotic as yours would foster a dream like yours.'

"And then, it finally, all culminated into terrifying torture. They'd-" I can't help the shiver that runs up my spine and causes my voice to soften as if they could overhear, "They'd put me in the garage, they'd start the car. I'd sob and shake humiliatingly. I knew that either the fear or the carbon monoxide was going to kill me, I just didn't know which would take me out. They'd blare the horn and flash the brights until I begged them to stop, which never took long--most times I was begging them to stop before it even started."

With the ice of pavement and pitch black of a garage.

'Think of what you've caused.'

Until headlights flashed on a deer-in-headlights and the horn blared.

"I think what made it all worse, was that school wasn't the escape I needed. I went from school to school, kicked out for my poor notes or my even poorer attitude, my unrelenting drinking or my unrelenting distraction. I couldn't focus and so I'd do poorly in all of my academics, and because I'd disappointed them I'd drink, and so the cycle continued."

'He's already a drunk, nothing to do with him now.'

'We do not tolerate this behavior, our standard is excellence.'

'You'll have to find a school for boys like him, it won't be this one.'

"They finally couldn't take it anymore--I was wasting their money. And so they reluctantly called Dorthea and George, told them if they didn't take me they'd simply kick my pathetic ass to the curb. Dorthea and George, being the saints they are, wouldn't have that. I'm all they've got left of my mother, so they took me."

"But if you're af-" She starts before I cut her off to explain.

"Sleeping pills, prescription without a refill. Took them before I was hauled off to the airport, George and Dorthea flew to get me, took me back with them. I took more each time I woke up, so that I wouldn't wake up in a fuckin' car."

A kiss pressed to my lips, "I'm so grateful to have you here, I'm grateful you got away from there."

I clear my throat, "So many times I wished to fall asleep on the floor of that garage in London to never wake up. So many times I prayed that the shouts of betrayal would all turn out to be just nightmares. So many times I begged to be taken away, to just see my parents again, if that's what it took. But I got exactly what I needed, Sunshine."

"But I got exactly what I needed, Sunshine." He says.

And that's where His ramblings stopped. We sat in silence, it was unbearably thick. There was discomfort at first but the more we stewed in it, the better it became. Suddenly, the silence was comfortable and thin. Suddenly, the weight was gone. Suddenly, the burden was gone.

We'd found our keys, we'd gotten out of our cells. We'd jumped into each other's arms. We'd kissed under the old oak tree adorned with a hundred yellow ribbons that reflect the love we have for the light of each other's souls.

We're as free as we will ever be.