It is her hair that I remember,
not her firm round breasts,
that just filled my hand
Not her flat abdomen
nor long Muscular legs
that wrapped around me so tight
but her long straight hair.
I never knew her true hair colour
Chestnut or black, blond or brunette,
she was each by turn and trun about.
But I knew its smell and its texture
the way it shone in the summer sun
We really were not lovers
though we made love often enough.
largely because we were young and
randy. We parted after that second
summer with as little regret as she
went from blonde to brunette.
Even now I remember her hair,
Its shine and gentle smell.
Ah, that one
She used me something awful,
as a crutch, as a pretense,
as an escape, as a stand in,
but she paid well. Her favours
were worth it. What she promised
she delivered; not grudgingly
but with humor and warmth,
and a feeling approaching love..
When she opened herself to you
you were the only lover she ever
had :the only one she’d ever want..
I kmew that she was using me,
but I was using her too,
as shamelessly as she was using me.
We knew what we were doing,
and we were content
We were soul mates.
Fashioned from the same
plans (save for the male/female
bits). We loved the same things,
thought the same thoughts
Saw the world from
the same vantage points.
So, what happened?
Damned if I know…
No, no. time for truth from
the inward parts, as the psalmist
What happened was this
at some deep level
I betrayed her,
opening such a
profound font of bitterness that
she could neither forgive nor forget
and I became as one dead to her,
part of me died to me as well.
What did I do? I’ll not go there;
I can’t go ther, still.
I suppose it makes no matter,
mow fifty years on. O, I think
about them now and then
not often., too much looking back
makes an old man gloomy
Still when I do think of hem
it is the hair I remember