I remember you folded in half,
only your right side visible
in the kitchen doorway,
just enough to see your hand
on his hip, his arm
around your neck,
the passion in one eye.
I remember footsteps, yours and his,
on the steps, displacing air,
making me catch my breath,
causing twitters and whispers
from guests downstairs.
The night before, we walked
through wet London streets,
kissed at my door, your hands
on my hips, my arms around your neck,
passion in both eyes.
I forfeited my right to disappointment
when I put you back on the street,
watched 3 a.m. dark swallow you up.
Your interest no match for my self-sabotage.
When your note arrives two days later,
chiding me for not saying goodbye,
an ocean divides us.
I realize I should have unfolded you,
to read the whole message,
risk being cut in half.
Photo by Courtney Carmody