It's been a few days, a few months,

maybe even a year now?

since we've seen each other, been so close,

since we've talked like we used to, without restraints;

and seeing your face,

hardened by grief but still lovely

in the soft colours of a sunset

reflecting through expensive golden whiskey,

ice slowly melting between us,

careful touches returned hesitantly

slowly become more bold as time flows,

but it's never the same as before:

too many hardships, too many lies

lie between us still, unforgiven, unforgotten;

and you don't belong to me,

not for a while, not ever.

I liked your first wife, you know,

treated me as part of the family:

I was the third parent to your son,

another lover - yours and hers;

the second one - a mistress - can't compare:

sly and manipulative,

sharp eyes catch every detail,

sharp nails dig deeper into skin,

rising to a challenge she knows I can never win;

but shallow infatuation, burning too fast, too bright

cannot measure up to my slow but steady warm love

kept alive all this time;

though what does it matter when you're gone?

The only other thing that lasts

is the photograph I took of you,

when we were still young and naïve and innocent,

on that fateful summer afternoon

when your kiss was sweeter than honey

and my heart sang.