Friday, January 2, 2009

Leap Year

Leap Year

You dialed,
way before I was drunk,
asking me to reflect upon
New Year’s eve, 1999,
how we toasted the
millennium again
and again,
flat screens broadcasting,
all across the world,
champagne flowing,
in our downtown pub.

Our midnight,
the mayor rang
the bell and
you tell me how,
I was never
so beautiful,
the fireworks
melting the sky,
temps well below zero,
your arms around
my thin waist.

You recall,
I wore a silly,
flimsy coat,
staring up at you,
eyes like pools,
kissing you,
as the bell tolled,
and you understood
my love for you,
your best friend ever –
ever past that night.

I remember too,
though this feels
like the first time,
I’ve heard you say it,
and I wonder,
why tell me now,
nearly a decade later,
in a time where I’d
prefer to leap forward,
rather than being held,
steadfast to memory.

Why call this eve,
right as I’m pulling
that same flimsy coat,
over bony shoulders,
well-meaning, hell-raising
friends calling me out,
rattling my rib cage,
where the heart lies,
and you chose now
to remind me,
how cold it is tonight.

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