FREED VERSE

There is a stray blonde hair on your navy blazer;
   It's one I can only make out
   when Sunday morning rays shine on your shoulder.

It's funny, how everywhere we go
turns into our own world.

  The dingy, pissed-on street corner fades;
       It becomes a stolen streetlight kiss or two
       and my head nestled
       in your shoulder while waiting for the walk sign.

   The coffee shop chatter does it, too; 
       I don't need to close my eyes for those 
       statico voices
       to become the crackling of a candle wick
       whose whiskey-oak fragrance
       reminds me I haven't left home.