Blonde

You feel so new but so good 

and I can’t bring myself to look into your eyes

because I’m afraid you’ll see something 

that you won’t like. 

You read a book in the corner of the room

and I watch, infatuated, 

in disbelief that someone like you exists

because how could someone like you

acknowledge someone like me? 

A broken record, a full voicemail machine, 

a rainstorm that never stops hailing. 

I kiss your cheek and wonder if it’s too much, 

but then you ask me to tell you a story.

We talk over strawberries and wine, 

so I don’t feel like going home. 

We ride the train not as strangers. 

Your blonde hair brightens, 

almost to a strawberry red, 

in the sunset, 

and things feel right.