Summer Nights

There used to be meaning here in this place we called home,

summer nights lying on the sofa, snuggled in your arms,

tucked in white draped sheets, our clothes and shoes: polo shirts, black jeans,

spaghetti straps, stilettos, luxury dress shoes, all scattered across the floor,

searching for a new home to dwell, trapped in smooth-tongued languages,

the air around us a dimension of infinite galaxies in sync with

our beating hearts, rubbing my gentle hands across your smooth wavy hair,

each strand a shooting star shimmering across the skyline,

watching Dawson’s Creek, giggling, scrambling for the right words

to say at different scenes, breathing in the sweet, sizzling smell

of the steak frying in the kitchen, homemade mashed potatoes

escaping from the pot into our noses, like it knew we couldn’t

resist its tender taste.  Flashing headlights of late night drivers

flickered through our eyes from the window facing us, noisy

neighbors from across the street echoed in our ears, groovy

teenagers strolling down the streets, playing hypnotizing

beats sunk deep into our existence, as we nudged a little closer

to each other, embracing the enchanting tune, the sound of the cool

breeze that could be heard outside of our apartment harmonized

with our arched feet, dancing to the glorious night of rapturous delight,

 our pillows massaging the back of our heads, slowly drifting off to sleep,

while the TV stared at our motionless bodies through the night.  Now,

 the memories have faded away into the shadows, in some unknown world

far from my reach, a secluded street where muted trees have slam shut

their gleeful melodies, and I try to chase after them in the sullied sky,

but the closer I am, it just pushes me further back into the horizon.

I don’t know how to let go of the past when the photographic depictions

of us yanks me back to the times when you’d say,

I’ll always be here with you until the end of time.