Past Lives

We were there in Rome with candles in the archway,
blowing them out when we caught the other's eye,
wishing the night to stay on marble platforms,
our fingers tracing stars, tracing one another.
In Barbados with crab-pinched toes,
we ran the shoreline in tattered cloth,
falling into the coral, bloodied, all smiles.
You kiss the wound and it always heals.
We were the sand in the Sahara rushing and twisting
against each particle of one another.
You make a whirlwind of color in the sunlight.
How could I not follow you into the dark?
You were my John and I was your Jane,
but I never wrote you that letter.
You shook on the platform, army bag in tote.
My lover, a child, a boy, my man,
your lips lingered on mine
tracing the bottom, the promise I needed.
We were painters in the seventies,
dancing and kissing against white canvas,
blue and yellow painted bodies imprinting
something beautiful for the world to admire.
We are young and we are fertile.
The new creation grows in anticipation.
You grab us both when you bend on your knee.
When you kiss him in my swollen belly, you kiss me.
"Forever and always," you whisper against my cheek.

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