From the beginning,
you were a prize in a store window,
and I could just barely peek
over the ledge
to gaze upon
your bright red beauty.

From across the room,
a wink drew me nearer.
Your hair cascade like ribbons off a present,
I’ll push aside drunken fools to find my way towards you,
your feather eyelashes flutter and blush.
Don’t fly away
because your eyes will mine
to land on you once more.

Closer,
I can feel your strong arms go limp from intoxication,
your mouth mumbles
and slurs words you might not mean.
They flatter me all the same.

You are no longer the toy in the store window,
bright red and exciting
I’ve grown taller since I laid
inquisitive eyes on you,
and now I can reach over the counter
and grab you,
reach out to you,
but still I am a child,
with no allowance money to buy you.
I’ll complain to my mother “why?”
But I’ll receive no answer.
I’ll ask myself “why me?”
And stand frustrated.
I’ll cry to God “why now?”
And I’ll sit stunned.

Months later,
we still talk about that night,
when we complemented each other,
though we couldn’t see the other’s chest or heart
through the fog of brandy or *****.
We still drink to bring back those memories
of the heart pounding
knowledge of future intentions,
split through a pane of glass
and a pain of longing.