I keep thinking I see her reflection in the store windows
when I walk the black from where we worked to the German bar, outside of which
she surrendered her first kiss to me.
She’s not really there; neither is the bar, as if punishment
for all the carnal sins I’ve committed in my imagination since, reshaping that
night long ago into something other than it was, something grander in which I
got to play a starring role, my imaginary fingers slipping through the space
between the buttons of her blouse, my palms encircling the swelling I find
there, fingers pinching the tips until their rigid, this madness of hormones
that keeps me aroused, shaping my world view as I stare through the glass of
the German bar where I see ghosts, the barstool on which she sat, painting into
the vacant space the wine glass with the smudge of her lipstick on it.
I make love to her in my mind over and over, again and
again, reliving and expanding on that scene, remembering the quite real kiss,
and all the paraphernalia I have added to it since, always in need for more.
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