She’s Remembered

She’s there in my head,

this woman I remember,

always teasing me with

her wry smile and sexual

charms. She makes me

laugh. She’s intense.

She’s what I remember her to

be, but it’s not her. It’s not her

at all. The real her won’t even

say hello to me, so all I have

is an incomplete fantasy of a

memory, that in all reality

wasn’t perfect, but it seemed

to mean something

more.

But because she’s in there,

so ever present in my memory,

I’m constantly running in

circles trying to let the real life

version know that I care, and I’m sorry

and if I could do it again I would.

And I would do it differently.

I would have fought.

I would have said,

“Don’t Go”.

The real her however, doesn’t

even notice I’m sure. She hardly

bats a lovely eye at my flailing

arms in the sea of time that’s

flooded in between us.

Now my pleading looks like

desperation and the antics of

an aging, silly man.

So my memory of her is all I have.

It’s very little comfort at night when

the cold wind blows in from that

hole in the air conditioner screen

that the squirrels chewed

that I covered with duct tape.
 

But I have the memory

nonetheless and as much as

I want her to want me,

to be with me

and make new memories

I have to face the fact

that it was short

and small and

in the end

hardly worth it at

all.

I lie. It was worth it.

And the memories are

better than having

nothing.

My memory makes me

miss her. My heart growing

ever fonder.