With every fresh rain,
I would start a new write,
a full moon,
my pen might alight.
Inside a dream
there would be some memory,
draws me back,
I can create a visual recall,
your standing in the doorway,
I’m waiting on the sidewalk,
your hips align with the breezeway door,
I’m just quiet in stare of your legs,
knowing I might have them,
a little later on if I might dare.
We were children then,
yet experimental in our love,
we knew where we wished to land,
yet, were so unsure of when,
just now I could remember only how
delicious the moment would always have been,
until the breezeway door slammed shut.