It wasn't the first time

It wasn't the first time, but
it felt like the first time.

I looked through you, sighting
myself on your other side.

Shocking; but it's happened before.
Several times, honest.

You are silk at first, then
threadbare as air, vanishing.

When your dust has settled its argument,
I'm standing left behind you.

You're not there. You've been
taxied to some unmentionable dimension.

But I am. I looked pale this morning,
pale as water.

I stood awkwardly, toppling a little,
almost out of the photograph.

My impression was that I'd held you,
held you tenderly, held you gentle.

But your trick with invisibles
has left me gasping. You're hiding.

It felt like the first time, but
it wasn't the first time.

There's a sorcery about passion:
you visit all your haunts very early.

But the wraith in me wants
to speak with our spooks.

A ghost of a chance. It wasn't
the first time. Just felt like it.

From the book Love Poems