These Hazy Days

I Thought of You Again

As the river ran by, I thought of you,
and only you.

The planks of the bridge
were falling apart beneath my feet,
and the railings' paint had worn away,
leaving only rusted steel. But oh,
the water was so pretty that day.
It was the deepest slate gray
and dotted with falling rain.

I had my black cloche hat on, as well
as the white gloves you left at my place
but told me on the phone I could keep.

The leaves fell around me in your
favorite colors, and a soft silver
wind ran its fingers through my hair.
You would've told me I looked pretty.
I would've said, "You too."

Soon I thought of something sour.
Maybe as I stood on the breaking beams,
remembering what we'd had,
you were dancing at a party
with someone who
"fit you better".
Maybe you were wearing your sharp blue
blazer with the flared skirt; that's what
you were in when I fell in love with you.

On a bridge spanning a gray river in October
I had my fiftieth thought of you. 
I know I'll love you for many years.
And it will hurt.