I am not yours

And so we say hello, and we smile. Unbid, I remember in a flood of fragments the mud on your red shirt. The warm-wood scent of your woven scarf. The tiny view from our strewn bedroom, where we spent so much time. Together. And now time has come between us in a deluge, has washed away the reasons why I am not yours, nor you mine. And I could reach out and touch you once again. Yet, watching your manner and your poise I find this: I do not know your way at all. Your finger does not rest upon your stubbled chin, your hair long no longer. I doubt my hands would find holes within your pockets and I wonder if my memories are not truly of you. It ended. And though I can recall the rending of my heart, time flowed between us, and I find myself, mended.