Driving Past Your Home, I Think About
Once upon a morning, brave and slow,
I drove past trees that seemed to glow—
your hand in mine, a quiet spell,
a story only we could tell.
Your room was sunlight’s secret lair,
a kingdom built of tousled hair.
We laughed at records—half divine,
half chaos you insisted rhymed.
We talked in bathrooms, steam, and glass,
in bubbles where small hours pass.
You were my shade from blazing skies,
a palm tree smiling in disguise.
For mornings came with covert signs—
you loved me through your crooked lines:
songs you mixed in fading light
that whispered, “Come back home tonight.”
For nights were wild and softly spun—
we parked the car, the music won,
we danced like kids who knew no fear,
believing every night stayed near.
Once more, a morning stitched in gold—
I passed your gate, felt stories hold.
Sun in our faces, books unplanned,
the universe cupped in our hands.
We raced the sunrise up the hill,
chased soups that warmed the mountain’s chill,
foie gras at noon, red wine that sighed—
luxurious youth, unqualified.
For you were daring, strangely sweet—
the sort of boy my heart could seat
beside the spiders, sugar gliders,
escaped squirrels turned co-conspirers.
We ran beneath those village trees,
our laughter catching on the breeze—
a memory stitched in light and air,
a place my heart still keeps somewhere.