I don't want to see the moon
in those eyes that glisten poetically.
I don't want to be in these shadows
waiting, patiently, for someone unaware.
These long evenings of summertime
under patio umbrellas, under stars,
under wine's welcoming warmth...
Misunderstanding the electricity
sparking as words flutter wings,
flutter of nerves holding onto breezes
which stir and flow past, little rivers
of air, cobblestone and streetlights,
bicycles, cars, passersby, empty benches.
The golden glow tells me to walk:
I wander the forest and center streets,
houses rise up and fall back from
the curb, the sidewalk, the path
where many have footnoted days.
But one smile, one breath, one word
"hello," I follow the breeze away;
I do not want to hear that voice
for want of another's softer voice.
And yet, that feeling rises up
in spite of all I have said, wanted,
stood, postured, looked, desired.
Betrayed by self, I feel as if
all would be well if I had wings,
take on the breeze and fly.
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