On a sun-drenched afternoon,
One year ago as I dried my dreadlocks outside,
I called my “GirEL” to ask why she was so scarce,
After our recent one-year anniversary.
I missed her; we had dated for a nice year
That seemed like we knew each other forever.
She laughed and said something about something she had done,
That might not be “right”;
Then told me that “we have to talk”
“Can we meet someplace?” she asked.
I’d laid a similar gauntlet down a month earlier.
Wondering if she was just trying to get back at me,
I said,” Well I’m always here at the house…”
A month earlier we survived a summit;
This time from her flippant tone,
I feared we would not.
“Are you getting back with your ex-husband?”
She cackled into the phone a sarcastic, “Yes!”
At that point I knew to continue to sun-dry my hair out on my great lawn,
And pray that my intuition was wrong.
As a debility I let it slip, “I don’t want to lose you, GirEL,”
The needy kiss of death.
A year ago to the warm day,
From eyes of grayish-blue
She appeared to suddenly say,
The “magic” was no longer new.
Who said we had “magic” anyway?
Just a many great dates,
Some steamy sex that I am glad we took our time to get to
And an ongoing cultural exchange, is how I saw it.
Love takes work or the “magic” is tragic.
Today last year and tomorrow I didn’t want to live.
I still don’t half the time;
I guess the decision isn’t totally mine – yet.
Another year and the pain is often the same.
Maybe that is how it is in your late fifties as a bachelor man;
Is this how it will always hurt?
Or is that how good she was – or how mean?
In this past year,
I have seen other friends come and die;
Many things I will never forget if I am the lucky one.
Like when she threw her right leg over my lap,
At the movies on Christmas night as we watched Meryll Streep.
Or the way she melodiously pronounced “hilarious!”
“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!?”
And “stop the fucking madness…”
American street slang with an accent from Minsk.
She didn’t know how much love to my ears,
Her voice would sing that way.
The green of the humid June air,
Reminding me again that I am a loser.
I guess I don’t do “love” very well anymore;
Even myself I do not often adore.
Thinking about her and me,
I can drift off into a zone of infinity.
Don’t get me wrong,
I am “ok” with it,
I have no choice even though choice is my staple;
Until and if my next – and last – romance occurs,
To finally hurdle my swooning June heart’s voice;
Turning memories ears away from hers.
Oddly better for the whole experience;
Except the empty way that it ended,
We began again briefly with a call from her for my help;
Lurched from the forest and with the late summer words “I miss you”
Almost repaired once more at a piano bar,
Only to finally fracture forever;
Texted and read by a mutual buddy now departed,
On a warm-then-suddenly-cold October night,
In a way, I am back beyond the time,
Two years ago, in ’08, when we started.