I saw Dale in my dreams last night.
Our eyes locked and time stood null.
Her eyes, her hair, freckled cheeks.
Her lips, ever chapped, yet kissably full.
The tilt of her head as she smiles at me,
hand on thrusted hip in amazement.
She in a white smock of medical fashion,
and looking so alive, of years well-spent;
All the better, perhaps, that I was not in them.
Lucky in life to be not dashed on the jagged
rocks of my soul that had torn others' ragged.
Her fine freckled cheeks flying cheerful in the sun,
shading my eyes, my head heavily hung,
And gone, it was over, quick as begun.
I could go on,
and lovingly describe each intimate detail,
the freckle on her upper lip,
the way she stood one hand on hip,
the huskiness of her voice when awakened at sunrise.
I loved Dale as best I could,
with passion, tenderness, heart-wrenching emotion.
But love,at sixteen, is narrow if deep, shallow if wide,
I love Dale yet, and deep in my heart
is the desire to make things right
between me and Dale in my dreams.