Who could have known
the turn of the night,
as on the pier

the Ferris wheel glowed,
we watched from above,
it spun though long closed

for rides, you wanted to go,
but were leaving at dawn,
and I’d like to inquire 

if these minutes will add up
to anything at all, no—
it’s enough, maybe,

the way moonlight spills across
the bay, that within minutes
of seeing a face one can

still sense that there’s more
to come, even if not the shape,
or time, or place, and a kiss

is just a kiss, I know,
still wearing your scent from
when we came close,

the same old story,
and somehow
it never gets old.