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The Field

sometimes
I will slide the screen out of my window
and slip out of the house
into the street,
the pavement still warm from the sleeping sun
and pad barefoot to the field that once was ours
and lay between the hills
of Queen Ann's lace
and tired yellow daisies
so that the streetlights
and the car lights
and the houselights
are all tucked away
and all I can see are the stars.
Something about the night always makes me cry,
so I will hold my own hand
and pretend that it is yours
and let myself forget you do not miss me
when really you are sleeping,
oceans away
dreaming
of someone
else





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