My friend leans close, eyes sparkling and tidy fingers,
slightly puffed with age and weight, melting the cloudy chill
on her wine glass. When you make love, she says,
Do you ever pretend you’re someone else?
About to say no, I remember last week, how I slipped away
from our master bedroom to that old apartment of yours
with stairs to the roof, the one that kept the moon captive for us
as we sat on camping chairs and I held your guitar,
my fingertips on strings still warm from you,
You leaned in, smiling, to place my fingers, like a child’s
compared to yours, and help them press the strings to the fret.
Your hair, hanging straight and silky, brushed my cheek,
and I couldn’t help but nuzzle my lips to your beard,
course like your hair elsewhere.
This was back when I knew I smelled of sea water rocked by tides,
and my feet, rough from walking shoeless, stamped our rhythm
onto the low sloped ceiling above your bed. Before our kids and bills,
back when my beauty made you shiver and even your voice
drew from my lips the softest moans.
Yes, I tell my friend, who’s had too much wine,
sometimes I pretend I am someone else.