confession.
.
he kissed my hand. the soft bristle of his face was strange.
somehow it felt familiar. he told me stories of autumn on summer nights
so warm i thought i would melt. his friend has a tattoo of jim morrison on his chest,
i'll never see it, but man i love the doors. he does too.
thank god we all have something in common.
.
i have a weakness for the name jim, i confess.
he smiles, "my middle name is james." and i giggle
and tell all of my friends that he's perfect.
his hair is soft and blonde. it shines under the streetlights.
i'd die to run my hands through it, just once.
.
we watch traffic together to pass the time
and talk of where we'd go if we were free to leave.
the tone and cadence of his voice is soothing and my dreams tumble onto his lap easily.
sometimes i'd catch him looking at me, and i'd blush
pretending not to notice the strange comfort of the moment.
.
my friends didn't think it was right, after all, there were other guys in town named jim
other philosophers and dreamers for me to meet
but they didn't have the understated eloquence
of daniel james, the elegance that steals words from the mouths of poets
with just one kiss.