I sit in this bookstore
where I feel detached
from the young and
too young to be the old.
Miles away, memories
come in with the fog
and rest their toes at
the edge of the water.
The only promise of life
is the sound of fury
from beyond what
only the lost can see.
I can only hope my
ghost is always there,
walking the shoreline
and dreaming, neither
young nor old, but
timeless in this melody
that never leaves us.
In my yellow polka dots, I had
no notion I didn’t match and no
idea you didn’t care. God we were
so young then – and reckless,
just not reckless enough.
And before I die I assure you I’ll cry over that first kiss, denied and deprived over many oceans and beyond anyone’s notion of what could have been, preventing what should have been.
I suppose it all comes to its destined end, despite our legacies, our family, our friends. For the heart wants what it wants, when it wants. You can fight it, just can’t hide it from the places deep beneath the places you hide from those who cannot reach it.
On teardrops and rose petals,
I come to you, slipping
through your window, just
past the morning dew.
I touch you with a whisper,
kiss you with my heart,
an echo from the past,
a promise in the dark. Your
body moves alongside me,
beyond the years and
past the many miles
in this place where first
kisses burn eternal
and pure love
cannot be denied.
