I remember you as heaven,

horseback,

haughty,

as I watched you glide past.

You are now the past,

a vision that is invited in,

when I hear Happy Hour,

by The Housemartins,

and I recall,

dark tresses,

long dress,

with a slit at the leg,

the way you rode past,

never knowing that you had awakened me.

Seven,

I was unaware too,

but I looked at you,

and something told me to keep staring.

I didn’t know if I wanted you,

or if I wanted to be you,

but now,

I know.