january leaves and spring love - poetry collection

mustard service

i think about the way we danced in that street. arms wound so tightly, i could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. how i could see our our future branching out in front of me like Sylvia Plath's fig tree, each path to a brighter future. as his hand hold mine, eyes locked in stalemate, mustard service playing quietly on the car stereo. half a revolution 'round the sun long gone, thirty seven thousand feet above the ocean: wishing to be close enough to feel your heart beat again. we'll plant a fig tree in our wedded home, play the stereo nightly, and dance in the moonlight. there will be no more good byes, just good mornings and good nights.