November 25 Poem

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.

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