Love At Last Sight

by CWK (10/23/2005)


I know you began a letter or two,

started an email, or maybe a few –
but this is not about that at all. Not at all.
Because here I am, on my dime, my call.

I can count the memories I have of you
when you weren’t even there.
I suppose – but who knows? –
a man's mind might contrive such to help him cope.
I suppose – but who knows? –
such a man might hope
for one last fast chance to get it right,
and then, in the end, embrace, say grace, and good night,
for the thousandth – not the last – time:
like love, not at first, but at last – at last! – sight.

Such a man, I suppose – but who knows? – just might
stay up till dawn dreaming of way to reverse love lost:
counting the days, and ways; discounting the cost.
If so, such a man would be ready to fight
for love – at last! – for love at last sight.

I wrote all these poems, most are pretty bad:

better than my others, but still a touch too sad.
Did you really like the others? Do you like them now?
Even after all, I hope you read them secretly.
I hope they bring you joy even after our
little break up that exploded like bad alchemy
and nearly destroyed the galaxy.
Anyway, I wrote a lot of poems, as I am wont to do:
some about me; some about family;
some – um – most about you.
Actually, to tell it true,
they are all about you.
If you have a chance, I hope you'll scan one or two.
They are all about you.

What happened with us? What precisely went wrong?
What precisely did you mean, singing those sad songs?
Wishing on those wells? Did that mean anything?
Promising such things? Accepting all my rings?
Did anything mean anything? Anything at all?
Remember that time we quarreled,
and I left your house, with you still crying,
only to show up at your window
at 2 am, like some modern Romeo?
Do you still hold that memory?
Did that mean anything? I'd like to know.
For what it’s worth,
it meant – still means – the world to me.

Perhaps your heart will break.
Perhaps, you will ask, someday,
“Have I made such a mistake?”
“Did I throw true love away?”
And the answer, ahem, is Yes! Yes! And, Yes!
I could same the same for myself.

It is so hard to tell with us
where the mistakes begin and end:
what was gold, and what was rust;
what was good, and what was dust;
and who – really, really – was to blame.
Did you lose me, or just my name?
Did I lose you, or just your trust?
Your share? My share? Who cares.
We fought well – but never fair.
We fought for rights, but not each other.
We fought the same war a hundred ways,
with the same results, just on different days.
And for all our hard fighting, we gained –
I can’t remember if we ever gained a thing,
but we wreaked destruction fierce and full
on something good: on something beautiful.

This is all neither here, nor there –
but, to me, it is everything, and everywhere.
This is the last look in the last ray of sunlight:
a last grasp of hope for love, at last:
for love at last sight.