A Flicker (Poetry)

I wonder, does he ever think of me
now, when we are both in middle age,
or, dreaming, wake up half-remembering
how we once were? And did he, maybe, save

some small memento from those holidays —
used tickets in a drawer, tucked underneath
a clutch of more or less important things —
a keepsake, like a match secreting flame ?

On fretful nights, it’s soothing in the dark
to make that trip and let the mind slip free,
fit names to missing faces, so concoct
another life — the one we might have had...

Does he compare me with the one who lies
beside him? Has he never closed his eyes
and whispered, quite unbidden, some lost word
to bring me close, rekindle who I was?

We had our moments — passion hoardes its glow —
small comfort from a ghost that flickers yet,
sends wistful sparks against the day’s harsh rain.
Love burns to smoke. Back then, I didn’t know.