How could you so easily fit into the missing spaces of my personality…so easily massaging the ghost limbs that have long since been cut away? And just like an amputee, I often get misty sensations from nerve endings that are no longer wired up to the ole network. You are the great brown hope, with skin as sweet and brown as cinnamon and a mouth as sassy as a double dash of lemon pepper. You could be it…enough woman to override my instincts desire for more…enough friend to keep my mind’s wandering habits tuned and focused…maybe even enough companion to keep me rooted to one place. I think I’m dreaming, but only because I need to. My need to love is trying to stay alive, overpowering the ever-dependable defense mechanisms that protect my heart from the unappreciative, irresponsible, and inconsiderate upon whom my love would be wasted. Is it the environment of your life that stimulates my interest in you? Is it the melodramatic effect of the orange glow from the old lamps playing on the even older asphalt? Like a scene out of Casablanca, where falling in love isn’t unlikely but only a matter of time. This scene that has been watched and played out by so many couples on this same bench, under these same lamps, under the same sky…a scene outside of time.

By: Michael Verdun

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