I knew you, 

long before the blunt
blows of life
hammered your heart,
and snuffed out
your spirit.

I loved you,

years before agony's anvil,
red hot with anger,
warped your youth,
and cast your rigid mold
in misery.

I remember,

soft blond hair,
spread on
starched white sheets.
Thighs, itching to intertwine.
Limbs, locked in longing.
Loins, lusting.

I recall,

how love enveloped us.
Sexual springs,
surging through shudders.
Souls,
sick from the sweet nectar of surrender.
Hearts, welded
by the fire of passion.

I died,

when you left.
Lost direction,
found despair.
Buckled,
when a black barren beach
stretched through every dawn.

I learned,

to execute emotion.
Time healed.
You visit.
Often at night.
In shadows deep,
you recite our poem.

"But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face."

I don't forget,

the thorns of love,
or the blood-stained tears
I cried.

And that was thirty years ago.