I Think of You Fondly [Past Performance] Edit

[brynmawr1]

I Think of You, Fondly
 
On the rampart
standing face to the wind,
your hair, how you tucked it,
your other hand laid against the stone.
 
I remember the stone
laid a thousand years unmoved
by sea and wind, even time,
but for the lichen you touched;
 
how the years can etch a story
subtle as lichen on stone,
beautiful as the wrinkles
at the corner of your eyes.
A story I watched
as each line was written.
 
That day we walked the old city
held within its hug of narrow streets
each turn bringing a new horizon.
 
It’s a wonder how far we travelled
without getting lost
in the years
of those winding streets;
 
your early-riser penchant
for productivity; making
honey-do lists ignored---
me, usefully idle, I joked
 
on the patio content
imagining its backyard denizens
courtiers of the sun’s kingdom,
knowing
 
why the sea broods
always wanting
more of the land.
Every day
 
I read our story
like braille, my fingertips
lightly tracing our lines
knowing this life of ours
 
was never anything more
than a long good-bye.

Past Performance is not Indicative of Future Gains
 
I think of you on the rampart
standing face to the wind
and remember
your hair, how you tucked it,
your other hand laid against the stone.
 
I remember the stone
laid a thousand years unmoved
against sea and wind, even time,
but for the lichen you touched;
 
how the years can etch a story
subtle as lichen on stone,
beautiful as the wrinkle
at the corner of your eyes.
A story I watched 
as each line was written.
 
That day we walked in the old city
held within the hug of narrow streets
each winding bringing a new horizon.
 
It’s a wonder how far
we travelled without
getting lost in the years
of those winding streets given
 
your early riser penchant
for productivity; making
honey-do lists ignored-
me, usefully idle
 
on the patio content
to imagine its denizens 
courtiers of the sun’s kingdom, 
contemplating
 
why the sea broods
always wanting
more of the land.
Every day 
 
I read our story
like braille, my fingertips
lightly tracing our lines
knowing this life of ours
 
has never been anything 
more than a long good-bye.