On the day that I saw you again for the first time
it was unseasonably warm and sunny and it was your birthday.
The backdrop was a small town, also from a former life
and the Hudson.
Trains moved goods and people to and fro, nearer and farther.
“Too many trains,” you said.
I was nervous
like a lesser animal would be
about things I couldn’t change.
Your eyes, a honey-hued surprise
watched me. Not judging, seeking.
The questions in them pulsing like a beacon between us to see if I could ping back the answers,
Do you remember?
You like to say you can only control what you do.
You say you believe and you dream.
I dream too, man.
and not you.
“Not you,” is what you said the last time.
By then I could see your talk was frivolous.
You were an ordinary earthbound storyteller.
Not an intergalactic godsend. Not a companion through ages and wormholes.
I wanted to say,
“Don’t go” and
“Don’t you?” and
But all that untapped love got caught in my throat
and it tasted like shame.
I am bleeding it out now
through the tips of my fingers,
watching it form primordial pools on the page.
Even without a host it is still alive,
scarlet like fury
and combustible enough to fuel desperate scenarios and awkward reunions.
But I’m learning every day to know better.
I chant, “I am full of grace. My grace is your savior,”
until the words are like yolks,
runny but bright like sun.