The Early Walk

going back to what we do best
your smell lingers on my breath.
your old shirt and a long walk home,
messy hair and last nights clothes.
foggy mist across a bridge
earthy smell and dewy skin
dead end roads and dead end ties
only to be left behind
dampened blonde and damaged spirits
false closeness and naive meekness.

your touch is an addiction.
your hand to hold is simply fiction.