I was moving out again,
moving on,
wondering how many times one can wipe the slate clean
before just ending up with a fill in the blank life
that causes people to cluck their tongues.
I was packing up books,
confining them to a haggard cardboard coffin.
And for a vague reason, I flipped through in search of a verse of guidance,
but I found three pine needles tied together with a strand of my hair instead,
a memento from youth pressed between translucent pages of my Bible.

And as I sat staring at the souvenir,
I could nearly taste the years rewinding until I was there again

With you
sitting on the ridge behind my house.
In an overcrowded city,
this escape, this space
allowed us to feel
like we were the only two populating the state
of love.
We owned the scent of honeysuckle,
and we were privately entertained by a symphony of crickets.

You liked tickling my toes
because I would squirm in excitement.
It was easier to arouse me in that way than foreplay.
You were gentle, mischievous, generous, and mine.

I loved tracing your forearm where
the freckles spelled out my initials
like a fated, epidermal constellation.
I was jubilant, candid, joyful, and captivated.

We hadn’t become hardened yet
from cynicism and betrayal
that life brings.
In our innocence, the earth was a surrogate for hope.

We reclined on a carpet of moss.
And a summer sunset dying in the horizon
splashing cardinal and violet on the canvas of sky
was the invitation for fireflies to perform a sporadic ballet.

And miles away in a cramped apartment,
I stopped in my reverie and responsibility
to say a prayer
thanking God
for designing your soul
and late June nights.

07/05/2005

Author's Note: My boyfriend does have freckles that connect to form my initials. I take it as a good sign (and in this case inspiration for poetry).

Posted on 07/11/2005
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