You run

out the

torn front

screen door,

like a

runaway

child

begging

for the

cover of

the blackest

night,


hoping to

find a

second

do over

chance at

losing your

Sacramento

virginity,


Dorothy

without

toto.


it is one

hell of

a lonely

place.


you need

the time

to catch

your breath,


from the

back room

games

that leave

you scared

and naked

under heaven's

light.


no one

keeping score,


we were just

sixteen years

old caught

somewhere

in the

middle,


of being

one step

older than

we thought

we really

were.


that delinquent

adolescent

place,

where we

will never

talk

about

each other

again.


that in

the middle

place.


with a

canyon

of broken

falling stars

on the

one side,


and empty

pockets of

shattered

dreams

on the


other.