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.
I like it. So raw and real and well worded. Overall beautiful.