Seven years

As I was going through my files today, I found this poem I wrote in 2009. Most poems I’ve written years ago I reread with disdain and embarrassment for how silly they seem to me now. This one actually brought a pleased and nostalgic smile to my face when I reread it.

Seven Years

Seven: the number of years it took me to forget and remember;
Between us both ways in time; I climbed 7 and you grew 7 further:
Me, 24 turned 31
You, 31 turned 38.
I put it out there on both dates;
I lit it and reignited it; perhaps you painted one or two embers.
It’s my job to let go (the only way to regain strength and control) of the “I remember”
the eruptive sensations of self-induced suffocation and perceptive (ageless) tongues dancing between
meltable lips that spoke wordless poetry (don’t deny you know what I mean);
the way I would grin with my eyes when you weren’t looking to hide my happiness
for fear you’d lose interest;
too many words I could never tell you;
too many tears I spilled too few.
Connecting on one plane yet living two different landscapes:
You continuing to make your cut-out variations of wave shapes,
And me needing to taste the salt and feel the undulations.
A taste test with a parting gift isn’t 7 years of maturation.
Why did you want to see me,
kiss me,
move me,
hold me?
Age moves forward mercilessly despite how long we sit
On a memory; yet, lips seem to forget the miles and minutes:
Maybe in heaven?

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