You remind me of the summer I spent
in the forgotten weeds of lower Manhattan.
Of the wasted winters spent knee bent
upon couches, staring into open pane windows.
Your hands bring back memories of dinners
underneath candlelight, surrounded by leaves.
Of breaths that I forsook for just another
glimpse of your beautiful face, nonchalant
like Mona.
Your smile is the sun upon many waters,
your fingers, the redwoods beckoning other worlds.
Your hair has changed but yet is still my own.
For I know that underneath those brunette strands,
their resides that blonde stream that I consistently loved.
Your laugh is a mirror that projects my spirit into you
and it is clean and unblemished.
But to say "I love you" is so predictable; maybe
words cannot describe departures to other places
not seen.
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