You would bathe in cold water. I thought it was odd. You asked for bathing, touching, both scientific, enjoying passions, discussing religiosity—as spiritual magnets. You were in your fourth-year of college, I was in my third decade of trauma. We knew of liaisons. We glazed over them. We agreed to conditions. You performed a part. You loved to perform in parts. We never asked much, dialogued about anything, sweat & philosophy. Neat martinis. Wines with ice. When youth was fantastic. Months passed. You needed to renew our terms. I met another. She was quick to life. I was smitten. You had a lover—across the street, he’d come over as I pulled away: curbs & rules, dice & flames, arts & miseries. We were never so stern, never so believable, never so certain—as to let life go, to forfeit existence, to dance—parched & dehydrated. So casual about tomorrow. In love with today. To never enter you. To hear a tale. It was all to infuriate the poet. I wrote in passing those days. Life was thunder in those waves. I hear footsteps. I see color. I rejoice in understanding—those arms reached, they played cello, they redeemed time.
