Entering the E-room
I haven’t been here for days,
this quiet room
where I leave your mail.
I look around for changes,
notice you have done some rearranging,
emotions tucked away neatly in drawers
out of public view.
I admire your restraint,
being a woman and all,
your ability to contain yourself.
Your willingness to tidy up,
delete messages and empty the trash.
Not that anyone else
will be visiting here;
this space is removed, safe
even from each other
coming and going
with separate keys.
I circle the room,
see a curtain drawn aside,
shades pulled on all the windows but one.
As if someone had been looking out
for something. Perhaps
unlocking the window,
briefly opening it,
letting in
one sweet breath of fresh air,
then quickly closing it again.
That would be so like you,
never wanting to take
more than your share,
being careful not to over indulge.
I, on the other hand,
must catch my reflection
in the mirror on the wall,
stare into my own eyes
and remind myself
to see the longevity of it all.
Slow down, savor the moments,
give and take affection in small doses.
Starving people can easily over indulge,
you said.
I wonder what you see
when you come here now
and look into that same mirror,
what kinds of talks
you have with yourself.
I wonder if I should help you
change the subject, clean the room,
straighten up the memories.
You’d tell me not to worry about it;
we won’t be spending
that much time here anyway,
office hours being long and
retirement, if any, years down the road.
All this familiarity, of course,
I had intended to save
until we were older;
widowed and available;
comfortable enough by then.
I hadn’t planned
to discuss any of this now.
To be so hungry for a taste of you
(starving, in fact).
To be so weak in your presence,
so grateful to hide behind words.
To be watching you
balance needs and repercussions,
as if you were investing
in a mutual fund, all of our futures
dependent upon the outcome.
You extend your hand
in a gesture of comfort,
as if you have rented
this mythical room for us
as your contribution
in the meantime.
Always the gentleman,
opening the door.
And I, your pretend master,
allowed to indulge myself here.
Making my entrance in green camoflauge,
dancing in circles in the center of the room,
flinging my best Irish charms in the air,
hoping to leave some fragment of myself
for you to find when you return...
When you need me.
When you need to pretend to meet me
under the pretext of checking your mail,
breaking your rules with yourself
by coming here,
looking for something tangible
I may have left for you
in this, our intangible world.
Something calm and personal.
Something comforting.
Something sensual.
A piece of ethereal fabric
you pick up in your hands,
smelling of roses.
A poem, scratched in indelible ink
on ivory parchment
lying on the floor.
The scent of a single thought
of you and me
still floating...
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