City Lights
That warm dusk-lit June, I saw fire on your face; it crept across the lake and smoldered on your cheeks.
We sat in my car, headlights baring a naked beach and watched the sun dip its toes in coin-gold water.
We had until morning, a gift. That night was made for the city lights that burned as sunken stars atop the water.
Unaware of the rolling fog that settled in the cracks, unaware of the sky’s edge, just beyond a cloud grasp,
those city lights colored more than just a moonlit sky. They colored the whites of your eyes, pulling you
toward the distant shore, away from naivety and me. We won’t look back, you said. That’s not what we’re good at.
I listened for the catch in your throat, the one that held my name inside like something sacred,
but it was lost in the lights; you had already been there before. And when you stood, you stood so tall.
I wouldn’t have looked back at all, except I saw the city lights floating on the water last night
and remembered my wish to stand still amid the rolling fog and flowing clouds, to halt the fleeting moments
before dawn. But then I slipped my heels back on, captive in the cricket night.