Balcony.

Nights like these, when the sun has not yet set
and the salt still lingers on your lips.
Nights when the mist dances down the river and tumbles up the banks
and you're safe in someone else's sweater.
Nights when the covers feel good, but they could feel better.
You know that you've stepped over the threshold.

Nights like those when the arid air tightens the skin on your lips.
When the breeze shimmies up your legs with torn nails.
When you see that free isn't what it used to be
and safe is bigger and wider and better
and you don't judge a word by it's letters.
You know that out means through.

With cracked old threshold left behind,
with heart in flux to unbend mind,
with feet unsure but finding true
you'll be amazed before you're through.