Rendezvous, I do.

Closure,
maybe disclosure.
Will you even remember?
December.
The sandy wind through my locks.

The air so crisp,
saddle shoes, homemade crocs.
No specific direction,
inert complexion.

The snake I drove,
windows down, singing around cove.
Vivid memory, recall,
the smell, feeling, collection of it all.
Anticipating rendezvouses ahead.
You've never left,
I know, I'd be dead.