Love letter # 922

You/not you. I/not I. Outlines of a sketchily remembered tryst. Me on the dancefloor. You on the tennis court. A few bright days. Even fewer nights. Your eyes searching me. Was I the one? Were you?

No…as we soon discovered. A spasm of lust – lips and hips and hands – but not love. Not enough to stop our attention wandering.

Now we are water long under a bridge. You show a me picture of your grandkids. I speak of divorce. What did we see in each other? Who are these people?

Your forehand, my pirouette. Your urgent mouth, my palpitating heart. Foolishly, I love you more than ever. Safe in the distance, where you shimmer in the azure morning of possibility. A mirage. Soft promise, hard fact.

Us/not us. This/not this. An affair we almost forgot. And in the pool of your gaze…refracted, reflected…the far flung namesakes of now. Across a handshake, across the wide savannah of clockwork. The path not taken.

Blink. Walk away. And in a thousand years we will gather where none remain. And all of our tears will be unremembered.

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