28 March 2007, 8:39 PM
I don’t want to forget how it feels
not to know if you want me; to wish you did;
to fear our first meeting, and yet long for it
with every fiber of my carefully assembled
person, outside and in- curious if this is the place
where Love might grow again.
I don’t want to forget the rush of hearing
words I never thought that I would hear,
after watching as you fumbled with your fears,
your dignity and confidence, wondering
what you really meant by coming here today;
to wish you wouldn’t leave before you bring yourself to say
you’d like to see me again, because I so enjoyed the time.
I don’t want to forget a single syllable
of Edward, James or William,
and I want to remember When Africa Was Home.
I’d very much like to taste that Port
just one more time before the memory gets past me,
and you become so familiar I can’t remember
what it’s like to wonder what you’re thinking,
if you’re wanting, when and if you’ll see me,
how long it’s been since I’ve been in the presence
of a man who wasn’t focused on the Goal-
had I ever known a man who wasn’t fixed upon
some distant point he’d never actually see
if he refused to move his eye from it to look at me…
I don’t want to forget sharing Indian food,
plans gone awry, and mystical encounters
in chaotic spaces; finding Home in unfamiliar faces;
faces we would barely have noticed a year ago;
faces we could not live without today.