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.