Hazel - a lighter shade than the
hazelnut dessert we shared last
night which I had to wait an
extra 10 minutes for. Although
this allowed me to catch the
Giants score (and final Giants
touchdown catch) yet again, leaving
any question of comeback to
the Lambeau attendees answered:
Not Gonna Happen Cheeseheads.

Hazel - your self-described eye
color. I always imagined the color
to be a gentle blending of
blue and green instead of green
and brown. Willingly I
would stare at your hazel eyes
in order to map where the brown
interwound with green, how colors
divided the territories in your
iris as laid out in the Treaty of March
1978. Willingly I would dedicate
a lifetime to exploring those
eyes. Permitted examinations are
periodically halted for a meeting of
mouths: soft and hard-assed simultaneously.

Hazel - the feeling of this
abbreviated public rental car
shuttle good-bye, forcibly
stoic farewell in front of a
stranger. You in your virginal
buckeye white, myself in
federation blue, these hugs
are forgotten during the embrace
as I think: “IloveyouIwantto
kissyouIwanttobenakedwith
youIwanttoholdyouwhileyou
sleep.”

Return plane ride is weep-free.
Two weeks. Two weeks. Two
weeks, you’ll be with
me.