Late Again

You and I
we stay up late
trying to think of new words
for companionship
and isolation.

Outside the bombs go off
in the hands of children.
They march through the street
with colorful words
and ribbons in their hair.

We've given them the go-ahead.
Not you and I, per se,
but the people,
the collective parentage.

If you and I had children,
they'd be dressed smartly
and with style, asked to answer
questions about the heart
and to smile
through increment weather.

I think we both like kissing
but neither of us know how
to lock lips without sinking
hopes, so we just stay the
course.

This has been a summer of diligence
and promises.

This will be a fall of realization
and recompense.

I hope only to survive the winter
for it knows how to find the holes
in my soul.