I trace coordinates on your skin

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


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