THE LAST TIME
I
was thinking about the last time
I
was in love. When I realized she
was
thinking the same things at the
same
time as I was. The constant
erection,
forgetfulness and tears.
Everywhere
was a bed. Everyday our
hearts
bled into buckets big enough
to
wet the thirst of 1,000 red roses.
Do
you suppose love - true love - parts
the
curtain and allows angels and night visitors
to
circle this light? A light that smells like cinnamon
and
sounds like children’s whispers.
We
had only to breathe the same air to believe it.
Seven
months later she returned to her husband and
the
sad chains. Love hasn’t shown up since, except
when
I find her in the features of people I see.
This
nose, those eyes, that chin. They remind me of
the last time I was in
love.
