They have a subtle charm
Blinking in the sunlight
Looking bemused
As if seeing it
For the first time
In the face of elegance
And splendor
They turn their face away
Opting instead
For simple pleasures
Like a good book
Read by the window
Listening to the rainfall
They are gentle and quiet
Slow to anger and
Kind to a fault
Much like myself
We have been used
The stitches still there
Holding our hearts
Like a good tea
Our memories
Have been steeped
Melding in the heat
We try to save them
In time
The leaves
From the drink
Before it grows bitter
I have sat alone
In empty cafes
At my kitchen table
Waiting to meet them
To hear their stories
To share mine
I scribble love notes
To a shadow
Trying to trace
The lines of a face
I haven’t met yet
Though in dreams
I’ve imagined
Past life regressions
Back to them
A woman
Red hair
Tucked neatly
Under a cloche hat
Even in her coat
A sickness on her
One that I am
Powerless against
To love her
I realize
Is to slowly lose her
Day by day
Watching her life
Slip through her fingers
As she slips through mine
There are times
I have woken
From these dreams
Crying and helpless
Just like the man
That I was
In my dark sleep
Walking with her
On the beach
One of our last days
When I wake
My female frame
Shakes in pain
My head
I cannot tell
If it is the migraine
Or the memory
That splits me in two
I’ll meet her again
In another form
Both of us
Yet familiar
We’ll smile
Anxious to know
The other
To discover
What we already
Seem to sense
Yet can never
But first I must
Get out of bed

— B.


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