Last night, I dreamt of you with purple in your hair.
It did not hurt to think of you and it did not hurt
to see you and I let myself hold your face like two
fat peonies and pull each petal to my lips, thoughtless,
simple, like passing the doorway of a childhood home.
I belong here. Soon, I would wake and for the first time
all summer not slump at the weight of remembering.
I did not go brittle counting the days since your mouth
was last part of my body. Things are what they are and
no longer are. The bloom of your cheeks (like all living
things) had a season. I lived here once. I need not return.