The Golden HourThe Golden HourAnd so the golden hour begins,a halo kisses the backs of my hands.Houses wave to me as I stare out the passenger window,and I watch him breathe in slow motion on his porch.Light touches his skin and warms his insides,Filling even the darkest crevices with warmth.He must be thinking a million eloquent verses,Engulfed in orange silence.I imagine him holding a pen and paper,I see him gazing into the sun.It makes his eyes water, but he refuses to look away.The wind embraces my face as I throw my arms outjust in time to see him one more before he disappears.All I hear is radio and the rush, all I feel is