THE THINGS WE MISS

 

There are things, near the end of our time together,

that I will never miss -- the petty and pointless arguments

forgotten the following day, only to make room

for the next, and the next, our bodies passing each other

in the narrow hallway en route to our separate rooms,

the thick, weighted silence clinging to the walls

like spiderwebs. that sense of estrangement.

But today -- the first warm sun of spring on this earth

without you -- I recall instead those long Sunday mornings

lounging in bed with The Times and bagels from

the Bruegger's down the street, the inevitable buttery

crumbs on the candy-striped sheets you bought

on sale from Target, and rich, strong coffee chasing

away the lingering fog of late night whiskey.

I remember the long walks from one end of the avenue

to the other, not turning back until we could see

the river snaking between buildings, throwing sparks.

I miss the mundane and unexpected -- being able to ask you

the name of some character actor from the 1940s,

or how to pronounce a word I had stumbled across

in a novel so that I wouldn't embarrass myself in public.

And I remember when, weeks after the separation,

you stopped by my tiny, disheveled studio, not wanting

sex, or residual romance, but merely to warm your

feet -- permanently chilly -- against the back of my legs

in bed. "For old time's sake," you smiled innocently.

I was surprised to be missed at all, surprised

at your request, so simple and immediate, both of us

laughing slightly in that fundamental warmth,

lying together without wanting, blood rising to meet blood

in mutual recognition, then continuing, as they must,

on separate courses, each having known the way

long before we ever came to be.