By Ed Crane
I opened your poems today
on a search for beautiful words.
I only have a few of them.
One of my deepest regrets.
Falling in love with yours.
Never sure if you fell in love with mine.
You were so polite.
A dozen years since our never-affair.
I found your obituary today.
You were so graceful.
Hiding your terror with wonder.
. . . . It didn’t say that.
Those last months must have been hell
when the poems no longer came.
You talked of angels and opera
I spoke of volcanos and aeroplanes.
You had a little god in your bedroom.
He must miss you still – as do the paintings
that whispered in your ear
I had only dolphins.
They never said a word.
I read your words and a tear dares to rise.
Words not intended for me.
. . . beautiful . . . Spreading them around,
but you shared secrets behind them with me.
Confusing me with your loves.
(While mine were more straightforward)
I -- like some Father O’Malley, behind a Gothic grill --
Washing them down with unholy blood.
Easing your conscience.
Swapping secrets across an ocean
knowing we would never meet.
That wasn’t important.
We were closer than lovers could ever be.
Some might hope they would unite in death.
But that is not for us . . .
we both know we have more pressing liaisons.