Saying good night is the hardest thing,
when you’re seventeen years old
and she’s looking deep into your eyes,
and then looks down and sighs.
So you lean against the doorjamb,
sweaty hands, fingers entwined,
another fifteen minutes goes by,
talking and laughing and whiling
away the time that you don’t want
to ever end.
Just one more kiss you’re thinking,
and then you’ll go, and another
fifteen minutes goes by and
you’re still gazing into each
other’s eyes wondering how life
could possibly go on without her,
without this moment, without her
soft lips on yours. But the curfew;
so you say the final good night,
turn and walk back into the night
with a pocketful of kisses
and a moon shining bright.