He drove me down before dusk
and we parked in the
slightly rustic
slightly suburban
cul-de-sac.
Pointing out the house
he lived in as a boy,
right arm draped around
my shoulder as if
I were something precious
left arm pointing at
a moon-shaped window
on the second floor.

“That was my room, that’s where I grew up.”

“Where you wrote your first songs?”
I coyly offered.

“Yes,” returned as his grinning answer.

We nuzzled and kissed
until the sunset
became dusk
became evening
became “It’s getting late.”

Even though he has since left,
I sometimes go and visit
his moon-shaped window
around sunset, when the light
diffuses around the landscape
of beach and vacation homes.

Tonight, the tide is out
and across the street
from my former lover’s
former house, there is
a for-now-empty pond,
interrupted by a wooden dock,
leading to nowhere,
leading to sand and mud
leading to heartbreak.

It’s never-ending, isn’t it?
The heartbreak.
Every time I think it’s over,
I stumble on a stone that
I hadn’t yet overturned.
Or lose a shoe to the
mud and sand. Or simply
start the endless and infinite
string of whispers and what-ifs.

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