She. Is a red
door framed
against the face
of a white house,

but i am the bitter
tongue of a scorned lover
desperate to shield what
remains of their pride and yet

She. Is the light
of a Christmas tree
at 2 AM when
the house slumbers,

but i am the third
strike at home plate
of the last at bat for a boy
too scared to swing and yet

She. Saves me
from a reality marked
by the perpetual echoing
of a premature goodbye,

but i condemn and fail
to moderate the timeliness
of a greeting offered
too late and yet…

– Nolan Adams