The Last Time

I was thinking about the last time
I was in love. When I realized she
was thinking the same things at the
same time as I was. The constant
erection, forgetfulness and tears.

Everywhere was a bed. Everyday our
hearts bled into buckets big enough
to wet the thirst of 1,000 red roses.

Do you suppose love - true love - parts
the curtain and allows angels and night
visitors to circle this light? A light that
smells like cinnamon and sounds like
children’s whispers.

We had only to breathe the same air to believe it.

Seven months later she returned to her
husband and the sad chains. Love hasn’t
shown up since, except when I find her in
the features of people I see. This nose,
those eyes, that chin. They remind me of
the last time I was in love.