Old Flame (Poetry)

For the first time in years, I saw you today:
we passed on the street and I watched you walk by —
middle-aged, slightly paunched and your hair turning grey
and my breath, knotted tight, found release in a sigh.

I recalled a slim youth with a mane of black hair,
the Irish so soft in your voice, and a smile
that lit me inside and its warmth lingers there
like a flame that still flickers once in a while.

Bespectacled now, you passed without sign
that you’d recognised me as I stood looking on,
bemused by the changes since you were last mine,
at a loss where the last quarter century’s gone

and aching to speak — call you back by your name;
chat like old friends; hear you ask how I am;
fill the gaps in our histories; relive the game
that we played in our twenties — but sense built a dam

and held back my words as you merged with the crowd,
gone like a ghost in the gathering gloom.
The flame sank and died as the traffic poured loud,
and the girl in me shivered that lost afternoon.