harking back to an earlier poem of mine: poor wendy -- all the heroines get left behind. but she was a darling after all. yes, i very much have tears in my eyes. and it shall be hard to see, and sometimes i won't want to, but i will go on looking an...
i will touch (i touched) your neck with fingers and nails painted red as cherries split, (yes, ruby cherries in the spring.) to catch your nape with a cold (warm) mouth (but i didn't — i couldn't linger long, love) it will certainly — we won't be — the same (but we were, all the same). you didn't know if i would be me (but i was as a bubble of your girl's laughter) and i didn't know if it would be you in front of my newsameyoung flesh (but it was you as always you've been) — we won't hold hands — you'd said — but i found your fingers meshed and mine in your leather pocket any way. and how you murmured you'd miss me even with my breathing body right there — with the breeze picking up and speckles of rain in the christmas lights — do you still miss me now that i'm right here?
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