Old Love

Old love.
Like a bench
warmed by the sun,
softly dappled with shadow
and memory;
an almost distinct outline.

It is not something to sink into,
this bench of hard wooden slats
and chipped paint,
this old love.
No:
It is something to perch upon
gently--
delicately--
fleetingly--
before moving along.

It is not a comfortable perch,
not this bench,
this old love.
It is a vantage point,
a resting spot,
worn smooth from use,
though splinters lie in wait
ready to pierce the armor you donned so carefully--
(and wear so uncomfortably)
(and hold so invisibly)
donned only this morning
before leaving.

But you sit.
pause for a moment
in the sun and warmth of
this old love,
perched and dappled and indistinct,
focused on some inward image of long ago--
or far away--
or never was but should have been.

This old love,
this paint-chipped bench
where you sit
and shift,
to find that spot of comfort and ease,
the one that used to be--
or almost was--
a question on your lips:
(in your hips and knees and neck)
Here?
No
This?
No
Perhaps?
No,

No, and no again.
There is no groove,
no flow
nor easy rhythm
of unthinking nonchalance--
even if there ever was,
or if there never was--
and so you stretch
and breathe in all the glory of
dappled memory and
armored comfort,
rise with indistinct reluctance,
moving softly to find the next bench along the way.