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NATASHA DENNERSTEIN

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Thirteen Years

 

It’s been a few years; I’ve moved on;
the best thing you did for me was leave.
I hardly think of you at all any more,
so I’d thank you to please stop
visiting my dreams. If you don’t mind.
I rarely think of that great
camping trip on the Barrier Reef

 

with our motley crew of friends,
where we saw the one-hundred-year-old turtle
lay one hundred eggs under the full moon.
I don’t think about your long, pale
fingers any more, amazingly strong,
like a violinist. Nor your crooked smile
or your flirtatious eyelashes.

 

Hardly ever.
I barely remember the open road
trips, singing Nirvana songs,
dogs curled on our laps, eating
fresh crayfish by the side of the road
just out of Kaikoura, at that caravan.
Time is fading you, like a polaroid.

 

I’m not sure if I remember you at all,
or just remember remembering you.
So please stop visiting my mind;
you’re not invited; you’re not welcome.
I sometimes forget your name,
but get a bit of a shock
when I see your initials

 

out of context, on a map
or embedded in a newspaper headline.
But I’ll never forget that morning in Bali
when we rolled around on the wet sand, fully
dressed, after being out dancing all night.
Or was that someone else?
No, I’m sure it was you.

 

 

 

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