The One Where I Met You
Wet streets, like wet streets after rain
hitting pavement like the slacking
of vexed heels before the squabble
of sun battling cloud, sun to win.
Rapid transit, like transience,
like de-coherence with the fade
of transition. Which one? Which one?
This is much like how the dance goes,
your eyes to my skin, to my lips.
In multitudes of shades just like
the weather, touching beyond it-
physicality. Remember.
It’s glitter, glitter hard to sweep
away. Everything echoes,
how long? And will it forever?
And does forever stand quiet
as shadow juxtaposed beside
forgotten dreams that fade away
to nothing? Like yin to the yang
of expedited packages
full of things we don’t remember
ordering. Discarded knick knacks,
antithesis of you. Because
I can imagine with faultless
precision the feel of your breath
on my cheek, the taste of your kiss.
a thing going something like salt
of the sea entwined with sweetness
and heat. I was here. You were there
beside me squeezing my small hand
on the beach, while I thought of ways
I’d start a poem about you.
With a hidden innuendo
like wet streets folded up into
a reference to the city
I love. The one where I met you.
Copyright © Erin Beckett | Year Posted 2023
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