I remember being in love.
I remember wanting nothing
more than you: here, here,
here, and here – everywhere
and always. I remember 
how a kind of magnet
seemed to draw us close
to one another, how
we fell in together
like something that had to be:
my protons completed
by your neutrons.
That was the way it was.
 
The electrons are tired now,
the ions losing their charge.
Still we shuffle our way
toward the worn stone
of one another, drawn
like sun to horizon, every night
another splash into the sea.

Just when we finally draw near
it is there between us like a membrane,
a silk screen, a heavy drape.
 
Sometimes I think I can really see you
but then the gauze covers your gaze
and you’ve slipped away.
 
Sometimes it seems I can really touch you,
but our separateness enfolds us
like a swallowing fog.
 
I settle for those times when we can just
hold each other, your warm being next to mine,
and I honor an illusion of oneness
 
as we stand together in the kitchen,
arms around each other, holding close 
with May outside, the night air gravid
 
with jasmine and only the thinnest gauze
of cloud to separate us from the moon
swelling golden above the pines.

At his apartment he arranges
the flowers in vases: deep
red tulips, gladiolas in salmon
and yellow, magenta stock,
daisies, stargazer lilies.
 
I can’t help but reflect
that I have never had a lover
so dedicated in his adoration
as my son is for his beloved.
It pains me to think
that he will someday learn
about the all that love
does not conquer.
 
I help him place the flowers
around the two small rooms;
the lilies gaze across the floor
toward the window but
the daisies smile up at me,
confident and pleased,
existing only, as they do,
in the resplendent optimism
of Now.