La Jolla


It is strange to think of the rain mixing with the sun.
The warm drops hit the windshield
as I watch you sleep quietly.
The roads are empty, of course,
and the swishing of the wipers is in line with your breathing.
And I daydream,
how I daydream of the scent of your lips,
and the strength of your gaze.
My hands grip the steering wheel-
on your hips and thighs in an ideal world-
at ten and two in the real one;
and I wonder if I'll ever have you,
or if I am forced to dream until my last breath.
And I do, of course,
I dream, as the sun recedes behind the clouds
and the rain comes to a subtle stop.

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