Old men dream dreams of what they did, of what they could have done and perhaps what they still could do. I too dream in such a way. There is not much on the list that I still can do except to tell you about the past.
I cannot right the wrongs or “cancel half a line” as Fitzgerald flamboyantly translated the Arabic in The Rubbaiyat of Omar Khayyam but I can tell you of summer breezes and the “season of mellow fruitfulness”.
Was it like that for you? I loved life, I loved the world and I loved you. I shouldn’t have but when I first saw you I was entranced, smitten, besotted and in love again. I wanted to touch you to bury my head between your breasts and hear you say my name, tenderly, with love, with longing.
When I touched you, you too would run your fingers on my cheeks, through my hair and murmur sweet nothings. Then as I tickled you gently with kisses in secret places you sighed with desire and fulfilment.
Wait, did that happen? Was that true? Is this but an old man’s dream of something that almost happened but never did? Where are you now? Can you tell me or do you dream of other things; of your life fulfilled with the joys and sadness of true loves and babies and of children growing up and a husband who was not me.
Do you remember me? Why do I remember you so well? You are in my heart always. Is there just a little piece of me in yours to remember or are your dreams of more fortunate men?