before he was famous

she distinctly remembers dimples
when he smiled and how his eyes
were that shade of brown that knew you,
more than you knew yourself.

on one of those long lonely fall nights –
when the moon looks close enough to touch,
he wrote a song about imagining
her bathed in moonlight and
collecting each word off her tongue
like a sweet nectar to savor
in his own cold, empty bed.

does he know that even back then
she wanted to erase the
angry line of his shoulders,
ask him why he cut his hair,
or at least admit that maybe it was love
and it’s not too late.

a/n: late night conversations in cars do something to me.