Dreaming in Santa Monica

The backs of my eyelids look like Santa Monica.

I first encountered its magic with my mom,

young and touring colleges along the coast.

I had big dreams and a bad case of mono.

Years later, I’m visiting LA to meet

your family. I tell you I want to go to the same

street to remember seventeen and stand

in lush grass with seagulls who know my name.

We drive down I-10 holding hands in song,

and you let me DJ cause you know I care.

I want to find you the perfect pair of sunglasses,

and so we walk on sun-soaked concrete, where

crowds watch me beam. I’m wishing you could see

behind my eyes. A memory of fall.

On our way to dinner, you found a pair in the Uber. 

Believe me, I remember being all

kinds of starstruck when you smiled at me from across

the table. No wonder, when I saw those dimples,

my feet found yours below the table. Believe me,

I tried to avoid them (and you)— impossible. 

So here I am, in your passenger seat. You’re wearing

your new sunglasses the whole way home. No one

to watch me beam but you. My dreams are different

now, but you star in them all: us, swaddled in sun.