Life on a Swing

she swings next to him,

out of sync,

but they meet at the bottom

every time they come down,

and he can't find her rhythm

no matter what he does,

wishing he could

sway with her,

but she adds to the breeze

when she passes,

and when he has to stop,

and leave the park,

it'll feel home

when he stands,

because there at the bottom,

where feet scrape dust,

the one place

her perfume crossed his path,

and he could see her smiling

as she changed speed,

knowing he would never

stop until there was no sun.