Like a Stranger

String lights over someone's garden,
the summer holding out till late.
She's holding wine she isn't drinking,
two fingers resting on the stem.
Her earring spends its little silver
on the shoulder of her dress,
and she laughs at what another man said —
I want that laugh. I want the rest.

It shouldn't feel like trespass.
It shouldn't taste like theft.
But wanting's only honest
with some danger in it left.

I want her like a stranger,
like a match about to strike.
I've wanted her for twenty-five years —
and no one here knows that tonight.

She pushes hair behind one ear —
the oldest trick there is.
It isn't aimed at anyone.
It lands on me like it is.
Somebody asks her for a dance,
I let him have the song.
I've learned to lose the little ones.
The night was never his.

It shouldn't feel like trespass.
It shouldn't taste like theft.
But wanting's only honest
with some danger in it left.

I want her like a stranger,
like a match about to strike.
I've wanted her for twenty-five years —
and no one here knows that tonight.

I zipped this dress at seven,
fought the clasp behind her neck.
Her keys are sleeping in my jacket,
her perfume owns my shirt.
The stranger in the garden
wears a ring that matches mine.
Twenty-five years — and I still case my own house
like a thief outside the light.

I want her like a stranger,
like a match about to strike.
I've wanted her for twenty-five years —
and I take her home tonight.

The lights go out behind us.
Her hand slips into mine.
Her keys are in my pocket.
Her ring still catches light.
Twenty-five years beside her —
and I still want her tonight.