I fight hard 
against drowning in nostalgia,

but the way she stood 
in late daylight!

The weight of seeing her 
standing in that light

pressed my body down,
was for once stronger than 

what I handle around her
most of the time, 

and I couldn’t breathe
as easily (or as much in denial)

as I usually can; 
time and age caught me 

and there I was sputtering 
to find some fresh truth to tell

instead of muttering, as I did,
“I’ve always loved you in that,”

as if I was some once-famous crooner
in some formerly decent lounge 

repeating some Bennett Sinatra cliche,  
as if I had ever been in that debonair league

and the sound of my voice would be enough
to bring it all rushing back to both of us —

but it’s the next morning
and I’m still there, still sputtering, 

the remembered voice in my head
choking on something wet and salty 

as I slip under 
the surface to stay.