Tributaries

I’m sorry I could not love you
better as a husband than as an old friend;
better as a lover, than as someone I loved.

And still do—
the well, lodged in my chest, has not diminished and often overflows.
Warm tides rise through aquifer-arteries and ripple outwards below my skin.

Your etching on my heart is well-worn. It is visceral.
Channels carved through decades converge on a familiar point;
the watershed of our memories flows ultimately into tears.

You asked if I would remember you.
How could I forget?