Memory’s Blur

In memory's blur, I vaguely recall:

hearing the slap of the letterbox against
the door and the drop of the invitation
on the mat;

and being asked by others if I'd had the
invite;

and counting the days, then hours until
the time of the party, frustrated by the
clock's patience;

and choosing what to wear, avoiding
clashes of colour and stripe and check;

and staring at the red walls, bare but for
the photo-frame gifted by the previous
occupant;

and deciding if arriving early or late or
on time was the thing to be doing;

and worrying about kissing the hostess
on both cheeks in case it got awkward;

and concluding that a bottle of each was
better than one or the other;

and who else was there and what they
looked like.

Memory’s Blur

But with absolute clarity these images
surface:

you in your party dress that shimmered
with movement;

and you with your eyes, speaking a
wordless "hello";

and you with your smile that beckoned
me closer;

and you with your touch and a spark and
that flame we still carry;

and you with your detour from my usual
exit — that aching ascension to a singleton's
afterparty;

and you in my arms, asleep, surrounded
by purple.