I remember the warm honey afternoon light
pooling on the floors, spilling over the edges of our bed;
it is strange to think that is someone else’s bedroom now.
I wonder do they keep their mattress on the floor, as we did?
Do they wake up slowly in the haze of a quiet noon
and reach for each other, fingertips aching like ghost limbs,
the pain dissipating upon finding, without opening their eyes?
A thousand nights have come and gone since then
and our bodies have rested in so many beds that I feel jaded
and I wonder where we thought we would be, as we woke
in that sun-gold room, our hearts twin rhythms and so many scars
not yet to be made. Memory is a bittersweet thing;
it leaves a sour taste in my mouth to think of you then, of us then,
and know so little of it remains today.
Do you love me -
do you love me -
did you ever stop loving me?