Crisp and tart like a September apple
is how it tastes to remember you calling out to me to stop—
to wait for you to catch up so you could take my cold hand
into your warm one and tell me you’d give anything
if I’d turn around and change course—
and I was tempted to follow you back into the library
and miss my train to Boston all because
we reached for the same book at the same time—
and it really did seem surreal that you were so beautiful and bright—
and a dozen years later I can’t remember your last name
which would make it so easy to find you in this new world
of Google and Facebook and Linkedin.
But I admit that I am happy you’ve been with me ever since
without flaws, or age, or disagreement, or pain.
You have been more perfect than is possible if I had turned around
and given us a chance to begin, and a chance to end.