“Wish I met you sooner…”

     And it won’t matter tomorrow that you ran your fingers down my forearm,
crashing them over my knuckles like waves over a jetty. Even if you locked those same
fingers into mine and brought our hands to your lips, kissing prolonged a clasp that
seemed to be meaningful. It won’t matter that you turned towards me after sex instead
of away, resting your head on my chest, looking up softly and studiously into my eyes.
     I won’t think about the way your hair would drape around my face while you
straddled me, sealing out the world, like in a tent or behind a falls. I won’t think about
how your looked so natural while the Venetian blinds cast a blanket of shadow over you,
nude, while the aqua glow of your blackberry illuminated your face and I stood watching
from the doorway.
     I’ll forget about the comfort, the sanctum from the stresses of the world that I
found in your bed or in your eyes. I’ll forget about the time I sang you old Bee Gees
songs when you were crying, and the laughter that pushed its way out from under the
tears. I’ll forget about the time you saw me in just my business socks, or the times you
wore my t-shirts to bed.
     I can’t remember you because it’s poison in my veins. I can’t remember you
because I have to. Because I’ll never see you again—and if I do than I’ll forget it all.

Chris Carlin