I long for the 15-year-old me,
as if she were a perfect tragic entity
I yearn to be.
she was soft like afternoons by the train tracks,
not yet hard from weatherbeaten city streets.
she was warm like summer park benches,
not yet frozen by loveless winter apartment nights.
she was in love, alite with melodies of sun
not yet jaded by routine and adults’ run around games.
she was free, to learn and to drink all of love’s promise,
to watch the sky and see nothing but hope in the stars,
to kiss lips and never picture him falling through her hands,
to dance and trust completely
his lead and the tranquil suburban night surrounding.
but she didn’t know this
as I wonder if I am still so free.
I speak to her at midnight
by my childhood window,
where I can almost meld her soul with mine,
exchanging gray dusk with violet dawn
other times too separated by black hours of night.
Each time I swim back to her heart
mine beats more slowly
and I cry because I want to love the world again,
yet the road is irreversible,
If I turn around now I’ll lose the horizon,
which she too was facing,
never turning her back.
So I’ll follow her lead
and swear to never look back…