Heartbreak
Suzanne: A Letter
While my skin still glistened from my first shave
I looked around the lecture hall, spying strangers.
You stopped my wandering stare, coughing demurely,
You stood to leave the row, ignoring the speaker.
And I followed you into the corridor:
Two young people, forgetting others at home.
Then you wore my shirt and made breakfast.
No mention of your him, no mention of my her.
Finger-counting the days, I knew we had no time.
Kissed you, a hungry virgin, who bit my lip.
A week later I stopped your plane from leaving.
I never cried, being proud.
Lying to the stewardess, I told her you were to be my bride.
Held you, with Vishnu many arms, I never opened my eyes.
The next week I hopped a plane,
I wanted my lips bit by yours
Impetuous and impetuous and impetuous.
Why should I fear the 300-pound obstacle?
When I landed you looked paler,
Spoke of your him, ignored me,
But I never addressed my her.
You lay across my lap, where she once sat.
You drove me to his house.
At the doorstep, he stood in my way, my way.
You handed me your keys.
Door closing, I looked at your shrinking blonde hair.
I drove to your house, braving
On your porch, I sat.
Until he drove you back to me
After two suns had risen,
And two more had set.
Driving to another plane, you said nothing.
I had no anger. But I grew older.