I sat for hours
watching the sun sink
and the sky turn pink
remembering summer flowers
that day you celebrated me
near the river where I taught
in a time when you still thought of me
as the love of your life, of him
as who I had long known him to be, of us
as not only hailing from the same tribe
but as belonigng to each other
and of your heart
more than playing the part
of the one history remembers,
the one who stole her story through time. 

These tears still are mine
on the eve of a summer day
that will remind me as always of the way
it might have been now and then,
here and there or anywhere.
I am not in need of celebration,
but I am lost without your love
as much as I was when by accident
you bumped into me, whether at the World's Fair
or there in Italy. How much we shared,
writing together, laughing....
It tumbles down through time
and echoes within this chamber of secrets
that would spill itself as a river
that longs to make its way home.

Here, in the airport...
There, in the field looking into your eyes...
And on the mountain of course...
Or that December night you told yourself and me
it was all for the best to let you write me off
as crazy and everything was too hazy—
mostly my heart clouded by the clarity
like knives that rose up in your eyes
though I saw only what I wanted to see,
imagined to believe you remembered me...

Wherever I am or have been
and whomever you believed me to be,
my story is the same and it is one
this world and you will not dare to see.

So I will be where I am meant to be,
high in the black skies perhaps if I make
the midnight flight or deep in sleep
on this dirty floor, forgotten and
residing in a ritual rejection—
oh, sweet sacrament! Take, eat.
Drink your fill of dreams. Imbibe
your life's harsh reality. As for me,
I will raise a glass to you and then
I will give thanks for another day.
I will let my life be the truth and watch
the sun spill out its love
from the skies high above or,
should I not make the midnight flight,
through this thick glass darkly
and through what is only after all 
just another day you will write me off
and out of your story.

But I believe there is one that yet survives
there in the vault in the Vatican
and in a resounding chorus that comes
from beyond, like stars falling
as they did that night.
That story is ours
and it will not be denied—
no matter the one you choose to write
or live or how you refuse to give
any credence to it or how now even 
I would see myself if I could
out out out like a light
and out of your cold story.

But I cannot, so, feast or not, famine
of love or awash and overcome by my memory
of a summer field and that winter's day,
I will find my wings and fly fly away.
The glory belongs to the one love
we will always share and he, too, who
is neither here nor there but both
and more... always an open door.
So as before I will recall it all and then
walk on, walking forever, walking alone,
carrying all the love and all the dry bones
still trying to find some home
for all this love that drowns me.