A message comes telling me a man who loved me and I loved back, is dead, and I don't know what to feel. After midnight, I get out of bed and go into my closet. I sit on the floor and rummage through boxes of photographs looking for the packet I know is there. And now I have it in my hand. It holds photographs of us dancing.
I
He wears a dark suit, and I a fall of shimmering blue.His eyes are closed, oblivious to the camera my face hidden
in the curve of his neck.
He with his height and solid frame, I on long, slender legs
instinctively align leaving no space between us.
II
He moves our clasped hands to the small of my back. He draws and lifts me to him,
my left arm sliding round his neck as I am gathered up.
He straightens, bringing our faces level. Planes from cheek to jaw
slide into place leaving no space between us.
III
As passions will, it ended badly. Yet, here I sit on my closet floor, throat constricted with grief,
not for the man who would be a stranger to me now.
But for the figure caught on film when I had uplifted, graceful arms
and he was there and tender, and we let no space between us.
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