he'd never come--

she knew this (and him)

better than she knew herself

he had much to say

but his words were now

paper airplanes and fallen leaves

on windy autumn days

she told herself that was one of many reasons

to stop loving him at last

but it never made sense during the day when the sun rose

or at night when the curtains were pulled tight on the moon

or when she really thought about it for more than an instant

during walks hand in hand with yesterday's joys

oh, it didn't matter, after all, she'd tell herself--

he never truly loved her anyway

but rather as some idea or images reflected

on freezing cold winter nights

in downstairs rooms

chasing passions as they ran naked

against darkened walls

but it was all shifting sands

wiping away the words she wrote

because it did exist, once--

and because she loved him with a depth

she knew she'd never truly understand

in one lifetime

and she remembered every inch of him

as if nothing else mattered--

the dark against the pale

the way his hands held things-- hard things

and swallowed them with their large roughness

and her--

how he carried her there

in the palm of his open hand

looking up into the very soul of his eyes

loving, just once,

 completely