I knew him well, or so I thought back then.
We married and we talked incessantly.
The sex was good and we were best of friends.
The subsequent divorce, it seemed to me,
avoided bitterness, was short on rue,
and never severed memories with tears.
We neither named it failure – to pursue
our separate paths did not negate our years.

But recently I dreamed that he lived still,
and afterward he rented space in mind.
I longed to ask for stories of his youth.
I didn’t know my ignorance until
I woke too late – his history’s consigned
to my imagination, and untruth.

This entry was posted in Aging, Language, Love, Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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