The blood red heartbeat of a southern sun at our backs
bore witness to our gaze, eyes locked on each other
with no use for anything else.
I once had no use for anything, but you.
At the stop sign, we sank to the curb
like lost children, laughing at our stupidity
and too drunk on night, infatuated
with holding hands like lost children
to go home.
The streets were empty at midnight.
A lonely boy paused beneath a blinking yellow light,
late August mussing his curls with the
humidity of a molasses thick afternoon.
Cicadas haunted the Spanish moss,
looming over us like possibility.
His sea storm eyes asked a simple question;
why don't you take chances?
