I’ve been meaning to write you. We both know that a lot of things need to be said. I am having a hard time wading through them, these conversations in my head. The one where we argue until past midnight until one of us breaks down and says, I’m sorry, I’ll do what you want, I just don’t want to lose you. The one where apologies are not needed, with words giving way to kisses, making love in the dark. The one where we hurl our affections at each other, not because of love but because we need a weapon. The one where we say things we don’t mean but can’t take back. The one where we end up together, because it was meant to happen. The one where everything ends, because it needed to happen.
A Married Man
The married man dreamt last night
of a house that someone’d left him:
the sort of house you have in dreams,
a thousand rooms, one corridor. He wandered
round alone, he told me, smiled
his quiet, inward smile. And found
a secret garden, high walled, locked, odd
velvet green. There, a window looked
towards the ocean. He flexed his pale hands,
I had, he said, the key. His wife touched
their girl asleep, a lush and heavy animal,
and watched him, knowing, satisfied.