And that, for me, was love.
Sitting by your side
outside a café
on hard metal chairs

wind beginning to speak
of winter
and breathing
on our coffees‘ hot foam.

In summer
it was lying by the river
where it churns blackly
to the sea.

The hem of my dress lifted
just enough to tease you.
Knowing
that warmth would soon

be a memory only
as would the creak
of cider cans
the cries of gulls

and that city, we would not
live there forever
even then
we were saying goodbye.

But you were uneasy
by the river
disturbed by my dreamings
and distant gaze

my fingers gently
brushing my own skin—
not yours—
by moments

when I might
have forgotten you.
You wanted love
to be a masterpiece

a feast.
You expected my
worshipful gaze
as you fed to me seeds

from the pomegranate
ran a bath, lit candles
wrapped me
in a white robe

led me through the steam
closed your eyes
and asked me
to kneel before you.