of all the places we will never go.
My fingers map the routes along
your veins and I imagine they are
open roads that lead us far away
from the inertia of this pedestrian
life that we tell ourselves is living.
My lips graze your collarbones;
I pretend they are beam bridges
that carry us beyond the dull rush
of our mediocrity; your shoulders
the mountains we stand upon as
we gaze back at all we’ve found
courage to finally leave behind.
Beneath pastel sheets, promises
borne of maybes and somedays
falter inside our sanguine mouths.
We are Sunday afternoon lovers,
vinyl records and faded sonnets
printed upon worn yellow pages
of books long forgotten by most.
We are the last of the romantics;
dreamers who speak of freedom,
when maybe all we really seek is