midnights still find me retracing the moments that led to our thousand lakeside kisses; they were secrets left in a summer dream. each second — a bowline knot leading straight to our late night drives and vehicle breakdowns and last minute goodbyes at the break of dawn.
midnights still find me sleeping next to a shoebox of the books you left; i still hear your voice when i read the lines of your favorite paragraphs the clock hands, mocking, leading me through a maze of memories and parking lot conversations.
midnights still find me rewriting histories with resin-pressed flowers, maybe the petals will point to where i started losing you — and maybe it's in every direction. the black, bold numbers have become my crumbs leading to road trips and to all the bus stops we missed, kissing; now i still miss my stop without your lips next to mine.
and midnights still find me writing poems like these but clearly, you're too far off for these words to reach.
and now, midnights still find me wanting you back. and 'til now, midnights still find you gone.