BY R.J. RONGCAL I APRIL 30, 2010
On nights like these,
during sleep of the holiday-stuffed,
during the waning hours of dark,
I stay up.
I stay up —
with her in the other room —
and look through old pictures
of you and me.
One is of you at Lowly State Park,
balancing high atop crooked, dry rocks.
You’re wearing that blue tank-top,
and the crease of the harbor horizon,
like a never-ending slack-line,
hangs prepared to catch you.
Your sun-burnt hands hide
in the pockets of your denim skirt.
The wind blows
off your shoulders, finding your smile.
And the sun,
Oh! That romantic sun!