a brief but pleasant email arrived

from julie last night   

a memory jog   my name written on the inside cover

of an old textbook   brought me to mind   

not even marketa   

whom i love beyond love   understands what julie means to me   

she was not my first love   she was my perfect love   

the template by which

i have gauged all other love   in that regard

marketa is the love of my life   but it was julie

that led me to this place   

i replied in kind   brief   friendly   a memory or two of my own   

it is enough   and it is not enough   to be taken short of breath

by these infrequent reminders of what was

~

in the here and now   i cannot

tear my eyes

from yours   i do not want to look away

on the contrary   i want 

only 

to be drawn in deeper   i ache for you

it overwhelms me   my 

comfort 

comes from your own longing

which i read in every fiber of your being

we are a fine couple

in love   lost in each other

and still   we find room for past loves

and cherish them

~

I sit on the edge of the tub while Marketa bathes.

I call her Marketa, never Keta.

I draw out the syllables: Mar . . . Key . . . Ta, savoring.

Her head is canted, resting on the side of the bathtub.

Her eyes are half-closed, watching me watch her.

I want to say her skin is the color of lightly browned cinammon toast.

Her skin is pale.

I think of Black Sea beaches.

She is my exotic Eastern European.

She is my wet exotic Eastern European.

I light a candle. 

The light reflects off the black window,

Her pale skin,

Her brown eyes.

~

It is no small thing to be loved.

I am loved, I cannot say why,

But this—what stirs? What is

This sirocco that stirs the grass,

Cannot be seen, yet felt, 

Felt truly, and well—the breeze—

And that is enough in itself.

That grass breaks in waves

As does sea—enough of metaphor—

It is—with fear that spikes,

And joy that spawns love in turn,

My love—it is no small thing

To love and to be loved—what stirs—

Life force, blood, passion met.

~

in the act of love   of making love

i often

balked at the very things

which she so craved   my sensibilities

were delicate

i recoiled at certain notions   certain realities

over time   and over change of partners

i came

to understand her frustrations   

to have longings   aches   unfulfilled   

it hurts

it transforms love into something lesser

i would be amenable to her needs   now   and gladly   

time   alas   is linear   forever forward

~

slipping into bed at four

pulling the covers over my head

saying  relax   be happy

until i fall back asleep   marketa's knees

pressing against my legs

as we spoon   her warmth my nectar

my thoughts a bouquet

of black roses

which she teases out breath by breath

when i wake i see color again

though she is gone

making breakfast   making our house our home

black thoughts recede   i needn't dwell on them   

color abounds   

~