You set the scene with ease
as if practiced many times.
Driving your off-road gas guzzler into the creek,
parking on limestone bed.
We listened as water rushed past
stars and fireflies our only light.
I gazed out the windshield and remembered  

as a naïve little girl,
I wondered if fireflies spoke.
Perhaps there was a Morse code for luminous butts?  

You placed your hand on my shoulder and leaned in.
And I
so desperate to be wanted
.- -… — .-. – # / .- -… — .-. – #
ignored the warning while
fireflies blinked their messages in the falling night.    

(Inspired by the “last line poem challenge” given on July 13.)