What Loving You Was Like

Like the taste of wind escaping my hands.

Like tea gone cold, too steeped, unsipped.

Like letters, writ large upon a wall, such that

they can be read only one at a time

and the complete word never grasped.

Like time-travel science, sabotaged by itself

and terminated before it could learn its own extended secret.

Like a fat cat’s dream of gazelle in savanna grass,

interrupted by the creak of a tuna can lid opening.

Like graffiti on train cars, constrained to tracks,

observed and forgotten at the momentary

crossing of paths, but remembered,

perhaps with regret, by its artist.

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