Pale Fire

My tenderest, youngest love
eighteen then now
graying and receding.

Only in dreams do your eyes
hold the pale fire they once did.

I seek your face in nameless
crowds like a bright blob
of red recognition.

Ten years this August
maybe seventeenth - a day
whose minutes stretch
for miles in memory.

I asked you to define
"this thing we have"
Your silence buried
whatever it was.

And since then I have
wondered, if I should
have paused, looked
back - maybe smiled.
I may have had my answer.