When We Met

This is not a literal dialog between two people exactly, rather it is about a dialog that took place a few years ago. I offer this for Poetry Thursday readers and all others who may find an interest.

When We Met

We spoke of those times of our foolishness

not without a hint of nostalgia,

of the feel of it coursing through our blood.

We spoke of it as if it were a good thing

to speak of, to remind ourselves of that

pain, that glory of sorts, that anguish of youth.

It was a miracle actually, we could speak at all,

as if it were just a simple story diluted with time

like a liquid ferment that changes colors like Fall.

The miracle was in the speaking,

in the braggadocio, the casual way with death

that denies the real and smells like a tomb.

We sweat in those times, now in absentia.

We were lost in the circles, those

circles of redundancy, an endless

loop that comes back to haunt us

recalling the time we stopped on the loop

and couldn’t remember how we got there,

so we got high and jumped back in to take

the turn ever lower on the spiral, to

the bottom at the end of the line of the times.

We won’t speak of it again….

The pain of its memory felt too good.