2017

You told me last night
in the only place I see you now,
that we will be together in 2017.

You were conducting the orchestra
at my graduation. When everyone saw
you, they bowed reverently. But our bodies the only ones
standing, our eyes stayed
on each other.

You always had that effect on me.

With your hand on mine, we flipped through songs,
you laughing at my “bad” taste. I don’t see
your face, but I feel you there, warm and familiar.

I will be 29. You, 31. It will
have been ten years since we felt ourselves
together. Sometime, between the next
two and a half to three and a half years, you
will be back, and you will look at me,
and you will smile just like in the memories
I clutch onto every day.

You smiled, and it was as it you had never aged.

Then, when I woke up, I felt my face contort as if pulled
by wires, a sadness boiling from my gut to my face.

I cried.