With fine compliments we parted.

With fine compliments we parted.
Visions of discourse in our heads.
Bodies configured to rambling
venture and a dread of failures
yet to come. Had you thought to be
my darling? Had I thought to dream
of you? In abeyance, here’s
remembering. Here’s the gift of sweet
forbearance. History tells
itself forever. Here’s my spill
of disconsolate poison. And
yours, I assume, is the same.