Not Even in Spain

After it was over,
Before it was really over,
They would still call,
Send postcards, write letters
And read the same books,
Even though they knew
They let each other down,
And insides told them
They weren’t happy.

But in the quiet of the morning,
With the hustle and clamor
Of the day set aside,
They still thought of each other,
And the thousand miles between them
Felt like down the hall—
Just in the other room.

She liked to remember when
They first met,
In Spain on a rainy street
Under a dark sky—
That was when sparks still flew,
Potential was limitless,
And he was still new.

To her Spain was a dream,
He was part of it.
And to live there was to leap—

Jump into the unknown,
Taking audacity, courage,
The type of stuff
She didn’t think she had,
And to be with him took even more.

He would think about Palm Springs,
Poolside, nude, smoking pot,
Amazed at the curvature
Of her body- her hips,
And how she tasted as they kissed,
Skin browning beneath the sun.

And now on the telephone
The last straw is bent
And she bites her fist,
He punches a pillow
Till they are finally through—
Quiet and awkward.

Silence went on until she sobbed
And he remembered she was human.
Remembered departures, arrivals,
All of them filled with tears—
Places- Amsterdam, Paris, Bilboa.
Love in hostel rooms,
Love in California,
In-between corn stalks, snowflakes,
Rain drops,
Beneath stars, blue skies, grey.
Love everywhere but home.

The life they patched together—
They remembered every stitch.

But now it was over.
He knew it,
She did too.
And all he could think of,
All she could remember
Was a clammy airport,
The last physical contact
And a final kiss
That will never happen

Not even in Spain.

Copyright © 2003 Stephen Goss. All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2003 All Rights Reserved.