There’s a place I’m headed to.
Bougainvilla and jasmine grow there,
in calm abundance.
Some orange trees,
and a rickety white fence.
The sea crashes gently in the distance,
a breeze floats by as I wait.
Under the orangest orange tree
is a stone bench that’s always warm
and quiet and just out of the sun.
I sit in the shadows there
and dip my toes in the sunshine,
look at the pictures you send me
from the windows you stop at,
when it all becomes too much.
I wait and wait, even when it seems
like you’ll never find your way
The oranges never run out, and
our memories are a movie
that runs late into the day.