I often dwell upon a night
that will happen the distant future
where I come home
after going out with people who are nice enough,
but who don’t quite compare to the
memory I have of you.
As I drop my purse on the
kitchen table,
and shake my head, trying to
clear it of its new-found standards,
I will shame my heart for its
stubbornness,
for believing that I am owed
something more.
I will sigh, and fall back
heavily into my couch,
my mind will drift back to
those early summer days,
to the wettest and coldest June
on record, when I missed you the most.
I will remember my heartache
how it seemed to mimic the cold
rain that fell resolutely on that sleepy Jersey periphery,
how it blanketed every leaf in those tall woody forests
and soaked into the moss and
shingles of each suburban plot.
I will remember the
helplessness I felt—
because what can one do with a feeling that is not spite, not anger, only sadness?
What could I have said, what could I have written?
What depth could I have brought to an emotion
that was deep, dark, cavernous, empty—
that was depth itself?
Even now, I imagine a time will
come some day,
when you are standing staring eastward
with some woman’s slight and
chatty voice in your ear,
and I will be standing, staring
westward
with a coffee pot brewing behind me.
You will be looking towards me,
and I will be looking towards your
back,
and we will be united around
the globe by one solid gaze,
forever looking in the same direction.
