Is it possible that you still haunt me?
Haven’t I exorcised you sufficiently?
Convinced myself thoroughly?
That you were wrong for me?
That we were wrong for me?
Sorry, sad, pathetic you
Who at 30, has not grown up
Or out of
Your life at twenty?
Then why do I wake from dreams of you?
Of your not quite smirk that betrayed
Innocence under the player’s mask you wore?
Of drunken evenings where you fought
My defenses – for both of us – and left
Lingering kisses in their wake?
Of your fingers exploring the tips
Of mine and feeling you touched my soul
With them, through them, in-spite of them?
Is it me? Is it true? Do you haunt me?
Does that feeling resemble regret?
Or is that muted youth taunting my boredom?