(Click on the link below, and I’ll read it to you.)
It is innocent, isn’t it?
The places we go without them,
our cherished and beloved ones—
when the song on the radio, say,
lures your heart back to Colorado
to a long ago October
causing you to wonder
how he’s doing now in Estes Park—
if the job worked out,
if he misses you too, sometimes.
It’s the same
with butterscotch milkshakes
and a certain brand of blue jeans—
these landmarks in your history
that appear sometimes like landmines
blasting you back in time.
The dark walnut box
beside your bed is something
he gave you for your 27th birthday.
It contains nothing
but a memory of his smile,
and the silly, naïve promises
both of you made, and broke.
Your lover, too, is innocent
when it goes the other way—
when, unknown to you,
he drifts away with a certain song
or leaves the house mid summer
lured by the need
to take a drive into the past,
alone, to inhale the honeysuckle
that reminds him, always, of her.