The Christmas berry tree where I hung in the crook
of the main branch, every night, always after dark, I waited,
you finally parked in the tall grass on the roadside,
me staring into your headlights until they turned off.

The tree is gone now, and I’m much older than that boy,
but I can still sit in the garage and imagine I hear your car,
stare blinded by your lights, my eyes closed tight against ages ago
when I’d swing, barely breathing, hardly able to control my longing.

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