I want to hear them through the walls.
I want to be closer to them having sex. Not because I am sick but because I miss love.
Sometimes I pick up the phone and dial. Pause. Breathe. And hang up again.
I don't think we speak the same language anymore And I am afraid to find out if it's true.
I want to let you in but I don't want to be easy or cheap.
I want it to be like the orchard summer of '84. Hell I would even take another Honolulu of '99 when we whispered to our friends and parents about lost selves and borrowed time.
I would like to borrow some more time. Maybe to squeeze your hand. Pass a note. Say I'm sorry.
Maybe we could change the stars. Or the wind. Or lift the fog.
In dreams. In Baltimore.
j.t. blue ©2002
