Once, when we were all young and supple of thought, I never told you how I adored you. Such lost romantics as we were, believing in our bright light years, we seized our lovely days; yet, I never told you. In Paris I took your photo by the Seine. What could we know there, with the autumn sunlight cracked open on the stone balustrades and parapets behind you?
In your small room, up high, where time resides — in that building which they knocked down, taking pieces of us away with it — a space where we sat alone remains. You took your pictures from the wall. What we said, or might have said, is locked away in spaces that are no longer with us.
That day, each day, when we surfaced for our tutors, I think I must have watched you smile. We all had our names for one another, because we were young. All my words break down in time . . .
Until you visit me. It’s been over twenty years. Where have you been? This night you come to me. We walk and we’re at our beach. How I have missed you. You sit at the concrete step. It is you, I make it so. I sit there, on my heels, at your bare knees. I never told you. I never told you but, this night, a kiss is this. How I have missed you, soft on me.
I stand and there is an empty concrete step. Other dreams of time unravel out from you.
Now, this day, there is a notebook whose supple waking thoughts are deeply put upon the page. There are misplaced words because the morning does this, but there is love between the lines because the morning captures this. A bleary day away from you, and you are safely placed and softly loved.