Confession

for Susan

Her lips tasted of vodka and tobacco
following our after-work meetings
in Sam's bar. Still delicious, especially
when my own lips probably mixed
menthol and chardonnay,
however awful that now sounds.
We only slept together twice,
which I regret both
because it wasn't more
and more because it wasn't right,
as I was engaged and she wasn't,
and it all ended the way bad movies do,
with tears and hurt feelings and guilt
and emotions left unresolved,
even thirty years later.
She married well, afterward,
and we stayed friends for ten years.
And though my own marriage
could not be happier, I miss
my other lover, my other other self
with her sinuous body, her heavy-lidded eyes,
her raspy voice made thick with lust.
Even more than sex, I miss her wit,
her sense of irony, her intelligence,
the way she would catch my eye
when a colleague said something stupid
in an otherwise boring meeting,
her metaphorically whispering in my ear
a running commentary, critical
and sardonic, acid yet gentle,
ultimately always on point.
So, Susan, this poem celebrates
how much I loved you, love you,
even though I haven't seen you
in something like thirty years.
Please excuse me if I say
I love you still. Still. Still.