That We Don’t Rule The Nightyou come back to me
in the scent of damp jeans,
with that other fragrance
I could never decide wasn’t perfume,
lingering for decades,
making my heart race.
I left on foot
for the last time,
drunken you in the arms of a friend,
- my gift -
out the side entrance,
down a drive
to a path
what paths are even possible that can take us
so far from secret selves and solemn vows?
“I was angry”
doesn’t seem adequate.
all these years later it still seems strange;
that I don’t hear you downstairs calling my name,
that I’m not rapping on your midnight window whispering “come out!”
that we don’t rule the night.