Friday, November 13, 2015

Sometimes you write a poem

I still dream about you.

As if it were yesterday,
as if
time hasn’t

                                    As if
I haven’t swum a thousand miles

the salt water
detoxing your touch 
       my skin.

I still dream about you
            as if I need you,

as if you matter one iota,

as if my words don’t fill pages, 
as if my photo won’t live on between 
closed covers
stacked neatly and

            As if the heart-pounding hadn’t shifted
years ago to
mere flutters,
then a
                                         flick of 

I still dream about you.

In it
            we smile uncomfortably across a table
in a diner I’ve never been.

            Longing pulls at
my layers
            as if it can possibly                unfold
                                          who I was
            As if it would make a difference.

I still dream about you.

                        In the dream, a waitress in a peach dress pours coffee.
            The others at our table chat,
stab at their salads,
sink teeth into 
white-bread sandwiches.
            Our eyes
                fight to
                        dart away.

I still dream about you,
            with all the rage and fury for what you took,
            with all the affection and
                        gratitude for what
                                                you gave.

I still dream about you,
like a puzzle, like a condundrum,
like a zen koan not meant to be solved,
            but that eats at me anyway.

I still dream about you,

awaken confused and drenched,

                   like a corpse descending the depths,

                                       like a fish 
               murky water.

Like a marathoner,
            who never learned how to run,
            but has covered the miles anyway,
gaining distance, 
            yet always looking back,

wondering if you will 
               go away.

- gae 11/15

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