In my twenties
I held your face in between
my steady hands,
calloused from distractions
of my work,
but otherwise smooth.
I needed you,
but didn't think you
needed to know.
So I didn't tell you
until that day in the rain
when you
blew smoke in my face
and
told me you loved me,
but had to leave.
You wondered out loud if
that was the biggest mistake
you'd ever make.
Then
we took a walk
and made love down by
the sycamore tree
where crickets mocked
us
and bats quietly flew East.
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