my own box

blue asphalt at dusk,

white flowers blooming

across the street,

discussing film in the

garage and feminist

theory in the kitchen.

bell bottoms and velvet,

coffee-needing eyelids

and wine-searching lips.

and her hips.

jagged and daring, incidentally

baring; unhooked.

maybe there will never be

enough time and maybe we

are old enough now.

waking up everyday and putting

myself into my own box.

big ideas like new years

resolutions, brilliant and

positive and impossible and

so dreamy, so empowering, so

utterly dripping with something

there, something that's just there.

euphoric lenses of a one saturday night

we think we'll always remember,

always getting lost, always lost and

indistinguishable from the next.

your best friend gives you a wink

and a laugh, it's a beautiful memory

always getting lost, but not void of

meaning.

and what does it mean when

uncanny coincidences don't

turn out to determine a

remarkable fate?