I

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.

II

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

III

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

says.

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.

iv

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