A Seagull Between Two Coasts Poem by Stephen Bennett The Playjurist

It's the memory of them I remember
not the kisses themselves. I remember
remembering they were light and quick not
at all like in the movies-

more like a play than a desire
but more like an art than a play
and in this there was a passion,
and in that, a kind of desire to the point

where our skin was saying both please
and thank you at the same time
and remembering everything that happened
and hoping for everything that might.

He was way out there watching me already by the time
I saw him. Did he marvel at the long straight ground
bound flight of my golden truck, as my
heart lifted high to his, so far up?

Does he too remember where he started?
or in his own strange way, know the place he'll end up?
His past and future somewhere far off
for him specific as an open peanut butter jar

with its lid never screwed shut
waiting there, wishing him home
soon, no matter how much space
must be crossed, or how
much time the crossing takes up?