Pollen breaks like water against your neck,
the garden hydrangea shifting beneath your tender caress.

I believe I have seen you someplace. Seen you
waltzing through the flames and the ghosts of the Downtown Proper.

If I should follow you in, it would be a mistake.
The fleetingness of you is what makes the sun rise, I think.

I move by without remorse, or regret, or the pain of knowing
I will likely not get lucky, thrice.

Let you be; the finest of dreams.
It is nice to believe, that in your sleep, I might meet you without knowing.

First published on Poet’s Corner July 13, 2016