Old Journals

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.

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