Say we meet again, after many long years,
perhaps on some busy city street,
or by the edge of a quiet village path.
Say we meet one evening at twilight,
when the tired birds are flying back to their nests.
Then, seeing your face, I would remember,
you too were once my longed-for happiness,
my shelter, my home.
I’d drift into thought,
wondering how peaceful you look now, how happy.
And perhaps you’d be thinking,
“Why does he keep looking this way again and again?
This man, he’s no longer mine.”
Pressed by the urge to return, we’d walk a few more steps,
and suddenly stand face to face.
Maybe then, you too would remember,
“Ah, this is the man who once loved me.”
The one I left behind in silence one day,
without a word, only to chase happiness.
You might cover your face in shame,
hoping I wouldn’t recognize you.
And there would be fear in your eyes,
if by chance, I were to ask,
“Why did you become someone else’s,
keeping my unworthiness untold?”
My daydream would break abruptly,
shattered by the cry of the child in your arms.
That cry itself would bear witness,
that now you belong to another, bound by truth eternal.
Your husband would call, “Where are you? Come on!”
And you’d flinch, startled,
then quietly turn away and leave.
And I’d stand, watching you walk away,
just as that last afternoon when you’d said goodbye,
promising to return, yet today, you came back forever as someone else’s.
I’d think for a moment, perhaps I should ask a few things.
Yet I’d leave those questions unspoken,
out of respect for your life, your home, your silence.
And then I’d only think quietly,
she became someone else’s, even while she was still mine,
yet, unlike the lovers in stories she never even said goodbye.
She must have thought she’s now completely someone else’s,
but she’s left a part of herself with me,
a part she doesn’t even know, doesn’t even feel.
Under what burden, what unknown reason did she become his?
Or was it deliberate, a betrayal?
I still don’t know the answer.
I can’t name this story,
is it fate, or deception?
Through misty eyes, I watch her fade away,
and wipe my eyes with my sleeve,
only to find, once again,
that the folds of the fabric are wet with tears.