Stolen

 

I used to steal glances at you, hoping that you

would catch my eye, catch me with my hand

 

in the cookie jar. You stole my breath on our

first date, when you reached out to wrap your

 

fingertips around mine, like I was worthy of

the opportunity to feel your soft skin against

 

my own. I stole flowers for you, from the garden

behind my next-door neighbor’s house. We’d

 

steal kisses in hallways and on high balconies

overlooking the world. I’d wait for those nights

 

when I could steal you up to my room to love

you until the sun would peep his nosy rays

 

through the window shade, just trying to get a

glimpse of the passion that we created. But who

 

would’ve guessed: that charm, the star-twinkle

in your eyes, the relaxing ocean breeze of your

 

voice, that smile that could level the foundation

of my heart, all the dreams you shared with me

 

like peeks into your soul, every spectacular little

quirk– would all be stolen on a cold February

 

night, by the same blue sedan

we made love in so many times.