The cobalt evening is dressed in oil lamps
soft flames and
bright eyes that race and smile
over crashing oceans with
whispers and rolling thunder booms.
That old beacon swings out there
over the bay like a pendulum,
the lamplighter tends the torch—
he’s a ghost now, but your palm is warm
and your hair is dark
and your heels click when we run
down cobbled streets
past fireplace windows.
We dance
the tango under a yellow moon
like it’s our wedding night.
Whirling with you, past floating docks and brick
facades, with night air that tastes like salt.
Where are we if not here?
Getting drenched in a sunset squall
with you and
feeling the room spin
with you and
watching the candle burn, with you.
Your palm is warm and your hair is dark
and we are home.

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