A poem.

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i prowl methodically,
judicious in my seeing
but there has to be days when you just let it go.
where you just be.
and you communicate
in that old imitable way that our youth betrays.

i hope youre okay
and that your hair still hangs,
with eyes that stare through the bangs.
the tears would well up in your face
when we talked about how we loved
betrothed and entwined
through our own slippery grasp of experience combined.

just the slightest bit of skin is like a beacon,
beckoning for reason.
so when the unreasonable becomes your cure,
please dont lose my number.

//jf 6.13.2020

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