Because — well, just because.

JULIE

Julie, I can see you better when I close my eyes.

You and I were never lovers
except for that one night we nearly were,
and that next night when we nearly admitted to the first night,
and that third night when we came as near to it as we ever did,
carefully sensing each other’s need as we danced, moving together like slow swans:
three nights worth remembering.

But then I recall
the night we were supposed to have dinner,
how I let the phone ring when you called,
how instead of picking up
I went on making love to our mutual friend;
I imagine you hanging up pissed off in your quiet way,
going to the bar, drinking just enough to get sleepy;
think of the car sailing off the road and coming to sudden rest;
think of you thrown from the bent Renault;
think of you embracing the tree instead of me,
of you growing cold by your car in the woods; and
no matter how many times I think of those things,
I can never think of why she and I decided
to stay together afterward, when all we were
was born in such betrayal.

Julie, I’m alone today, standing staring at your graven name
on a day that’s as dark and as grey as this stone.
It’s been twenty years since I was one of six
who carried your blonde coffin first up and then down the church steps.
I braced for that box to feel as leaden as I felt,
but when it felt empty, I drew deep into myself
and stayed there —
and now, somewhere outside my black hole,
outside this place where I can never do over what I never did at all,
there’s another place where you’re still
as light as you ever were.

I think of it, and of our three nights, whenever I close my eyes.
Such a shame that I have to close my eyes to see you, Julie.

So hard to believe that it could have been different.

I can almost see it when I close my eyes.

I have to learn to let that be enough.