For the man I couldn’t love

© Lucie Birant

This is for my almost-lover,
Well almost because we almost had it all
We wouldn’t fall into conversation. We would walk with our heads flung back into conversation.
There was this ease, this affinity that comes with knowing someone for years
The only problem being, I couldn’t love you.

You would walk in, a chiffon pocket square peeking out like a suspicious neighbour
I remember talking about my covert obsession for bright pocket squares
Accompanied with your signature smell
(One which seemed oddly recent. Hurriedly concocted)
Damp wood and strong citrus with the undertones of lavender
Maybe the information was diligently provided by my easily excitable best friend
Maybe. Not that I’m succumbing to presumptions.

You would talk animatedly about all the right topics;
The haunting melancholy of LDR’s voice
The bolt of lightening that is Tom Cruise
The multiple interpretations of The Last Supper
The super bowl, the weather, the maple syrup
We could see the stardust sneakily settling under our feet
And I sat there thinking what would it be like to taste the wine on your parted lips
And to feel that fragrance of yours inside my skin
To have it settle in my bones like a reluctant visitor;
For it to dissolve and course through my blood like a delicious poison.
The only problem being, I still couldn’t love you.

And then you brandished a cigarette stub, puffing away at the macabre street corner
While we waited for a cab to whisk us away from speculative eyes
You slid in with a natural grace, almost like a veteran ballerina and I couldn’t suppress a grin
We did what had to be done,
Getting gingerly out of the sheets, you quickly held my wrists – right at the pulse
And asked “When can I see you again?”
Well, everything could have gone just right from there
The only problem being, I didn’t love you.

– A