I don’t allow myself

the luxury

of grieving.

Instead I hide it

like a secret pendant

I wear

on rare occasions.

If I let myself start

I’d probably

never stop

so I find

I’ve returned to

my former self

the cynic

who chides couples

holding hands

and locking lips

needing

to turn away.

You wandered into

our lives

that fateful winter

suddenly appearing

on the Quad

emerging like Puck

from some

merry wood

and we welcomed you

with your

songs and tales

while some arms

were more open

than others.

But forever

turned out to be

a relative term

so I’ve removed you

from your pedestal

and your picture

from my wallet.

December 13th

fell on a Friday.

You had the night off

for your birthday

and I met you

at Watch City

but you insisted

you didn’t want

any gifts

so I brought you

a pack of Camels

instead.

On the walk back

to your apartment

somewhere between

Moody Street

and Main

you broke up with me

in the rain.

You spoke so plainly of a kiss

as though reporting

the weather

something we

once said

we wouldn’t dream

of sharing

with another.

I watched you

with those

emerald eyes

I once knew

like mine

equipped in the

emotional

suit of armor

you wear so well.

Hearing the words

but refusing

to yield

to their impact

for how could

anything

a stranger says

matter so much.

You really are

the Archer

after all.

SEM, 1997