high

A "3 AM" poem spawned as much from dreams as from reality.

we danced in the raindrops
making mud beside the tracks
behind the train station mall

never recognizing the freezing
unfeeling rebellion of youth
underneath the high of naiveté

left sitting like a drumbeat
through every inactive motion
like a video game escapist

wanting to gather around a fire
feel the warmth of each other
experience the first and the last

we shuffled through the years
hands barely touching hands
our love ever so discreet, enduring.