thoughts of...

He wrote,
of what
I'll never know.
Of course the ending brought tears.
Of course they were mine.
I left
one gray and foggy morning.
My ghost I took to haunt another.
My ghost never loved him.

Not too cruel,
but bitter-tasting from recollection,
as if infatuation
becomes a stooped old man
angry at my generation.
His pride could divide.
I teased to stay at length,
cautious of every frank utterance
and the wicked sly remarks.

This I know--
that he tempted goodness,
angels falling down to levels
always meant for less deserving.
This I know--
I never flew.
Not a clap of thunderstorms,
not an instinct housed
that led my forward-thinking heart.

Never too sad
about the abandonment
which shaped his present state.
And I think
this is what drew the love
to him.
Not love--
not Real Love--
but the lovers who gave too much.

I'm glad I left.

-G.B.W.