On an early night like tonight,
with the stress of the day remarked
away, like a check engine light flashed
from on to off, I find my eyes fixed
to this picture of you.
It's not printed, it's not material.
I'm focused from head to foot
on our walk down to Fenway
or that little park twenty minutes
after I first saw you again.
How you averted your eyes
and soaked in the surroundings.
From minute five to minute fifteen.
Just to sit on that bench.
How later that night I reverted my
thoughts about the future - and the past -
to focus on the here and now,
your back with its circular tattoo
finding me disoriented and intrigued.
To think about all of the "talks" that
we've had, you and I, leading us here.
And how absolutely surreal it all
really is...
the best 49 hours I've had in a long long
long time.
Come here, so I can grapple with your
shirt and remark about your neck.
And slide my hand to your left hip...
just to trace out our focal view,
and feel as whole as I did six nights ago.
We will go for a walk, and hunt out a place to read.
Get some food and talk about the good and the miserable.
Go home, to my place, and start all again.
