#3/30 - 2017

Sometimes, lying next to you,
I can see outside myself.
I see the first time you smiled at me that night
from under your windswept hair and sunburned cheeks.
The blue in your eyes glinting in the fire
when you offered me a ride home, sly smile appleing that burn.
I see the first time your fingers threaded through mine,
and I slip mine through yours in remembrance.
Sitting next to you I can see forward, too,
and I like what I see.