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On Remembering What I Wrote To You
I don’t expect you to read this letter
or know, even, that I have written you so many letters
about the two of us in English, telling
instead, each other’s secrets – my learning yours
could never be me. If you knew I had stood
so long at the beach waiting for you to meet me,
the whole time drawing pictures of you in the sand,
before you finally came, whispering behind me,
I don’t know what you’d think. It was blue sand
and we laughed in the car on the way home, knowing
that when you pulled in to the driveway it’d all be over.
