It May Not Be Love Poem by Robert J Meyer

It may not be love that replays that instance
Slowly, and with richer detail -
That moment when I felt the cocoon burst,
And the winged dance of abandon within me

When, as I recall, butter lips melting into mine
Merging with me, speaking for me - to me - through me -
My prepositions mingle in my memory.
I yearn for newly minted words for each recalling.

It may not be love that draws me back -
Makes three syllables ring like cherubic cantatas.
My tongue tastes the meaning but cannot speak it.
My very skin rises at the thought.

My days are now of amber, gleaming and warm.
They are but half lived while back I go to then
With brushes filled with summer hues to add,
To blur and perfect that wonderous when it was.

It may not be love, but so it might become.
And I will play the film again, restaged
With all the magic memory is subject to
And mold it and bend it and nurse it and mend it.