999 Z21

now,
I spoke English,
she spoke French
but only on the weekends
only in certain quarters

there was still a mystery
of a well made bed
or
the way water trickled out
of the faucet
even when it was all fixed

she might have stretched the truth
her lips might have pouted
more than her language called for
I might have dreamt more
than my mind allowed
forced me to decompress
sink into the chair
watch her strut around the room
all scars hidden away
free like a branch fallen
from a tree

I might have hoped too much
or
bent the truth
but
back then
I was too naive
struck by love in gray sheets
the color the rain forces
the sea to shift into
when things get rough

after a few months
we wilted like petals
we called each other sick
forgot where we met
forced me to write a poem
about the way she existed
only in my head