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by Stephen Lucek

I recently overheard a conversation I had
about two years ago. It was a Saturday;
near dusk.

You couldn't let go,
I don't hold it against you.

I heard music then, too.
A lamenting viola wept
because I would not.
Hours passed and you stood still.

You never said, "I love you."
And I didn't either, but
in youth love does not feel so fleeting.
Hold me in regard above what I deserve.

Hold me like you held me,
like I held you, like we
hold our breath and hope
for sunny days. Let me
sing a sullied psalm
for our love without passion. Let me

invent our lost feelings
of lust and fervor. Let me sigh
and we'll pretend
it all meant something else.

2005 Bucket Magazine. All rights reserved.