I Think I Love Her Still

I fell in love with an American girl.

Her hands were small but full of life

And warm.

I couldn’t tell you the colour of her eyes

Only that I never wanted to stop looking at them.

I think they were and are blue.

 

Her hair was and still is

Blonde,

Not golden like so many poets would lie,

Or some vulgar yellow.

A natural blonde.

And finer than silk to touch,

To feel against my beard as she slept.

How I wish I could run my fingers through her hair again,

Commit sacrilege after sacrilege by touching her cheeks, her neck, her waist, her blonde hair.

 

But I can’t.

So I don’t.

 

And yet the thought remains.

And it makes a man think, almost to weeping.

 

And I can.

So I don’t.

 

Men don’t cry at sunsets.

Despite their beauty.

Despite their impermanence.

Despite their distance.

That’s all my love is now,

Distance.

And yet I see her everywhere with friends of ours,

Laughing and flirting with life,

While I sit with fire in my gut.

 

I used to prefer brunettes.

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