I remember the gentle tap

Of my shoes on cobblestone

On the linden-lined street

That led to the brownstone

Where we’d meet.

The balmy July air, heavy with pollen

And mowed grass. The auburn-silk skirt

You loved, the way it blew soft about

My legs as I moved closer, as

The afternoon came falling all around us.

How the desk clerk always smiled,

So complicit, as he led me to Our Room

Knowing soon you would arrive.

How nervously I’d wait, legs tucked,

Reading glasses on, hair in loose bun

As I pretended to read but thought

Only of you.

How the white curtains flapped,

Danced at the open window

And the muffled sounds of the city

As it spun all round us, while we

Were held still in its palm.

The Anjou pears we ate, perfumed juice

Golden trails that trickled down our chin.

The way you made me laugh so hard

I would say, “No, No!”

As I tried to catch my breath

How we talked, me reclining on ginger-

Freckled flank, inhaling the sweet-savory

Spice of your skin. The way your mind

Spun quick and bright connections

I could almost see the spark of each synapse

As it fired, fired, fired.

How every sigh was Hallelujah

Every word but a part of a greater

Each goodbye an Amen.

But what I remember most:

The raw February day

I knew we’d reached the end,

Felt my heart splinter, a brittle

Glass cathedral, and the only sound

The gentle tap-tap of your shoes

on cobblestone, as they carried

you away; as they carried you home.