Paris '46 Poem by chris dawson

Waves of warmth and light
rolled through the tall windows,
broken only by the breeze swayed Lime that
stood guard outside her apartment.
A soft, maple leg lay across my thigh
as we drifted,
it did seem so different to before,
as I said it would,
but she had insisted.

In the years since the war the city had changed,
we had changed,
the relationship that we had had changed,
although it was still one that neither would, or could,
ever share with another.
It was uniquely special,
but my emotions, feelings for her, were so very different now.

Once I had protected as much as desired,
felt a duty equal to the excitement,
consumed a love beyond any that I shall ever taste again.
But now, now I was more aware, more understanding, conscious.

The scales of my reasoning no longer balanced in favour, nor did they even weigh with convincing equality.
It must end.
I think that she knew too, but dared to little more than think.
Maybe I was responsible, not now for her, but for whom she now was.
Maybe it was the experience of the conflict, of occupation, so many flawed maybes, but it still came back to me, in my heart.
I had trapped her.

Over and over in my mind,
I examined, cross-examined, relived.
I could see, but who else would understand, empathise, agree, condone.
Should anyone expect to feel the love of lovers
as they themselves feel it?
They have not known our lives.
They cannot know me.
They do not know my sister.