Do you remember, Wayne? 
(an epistolary from long ago) 
Ann WJ White

When your kiss lightly touched my lips,
you fled the room back to your world?
You left me standing, holding my breath.
Suddenly, I was aware you were gone for good,
before you had even arrived.
Leaving me with no past or future to hold, 
leaving the air, taking your only essence.

I tagged along after that. Following others,
seeking that air of mystery and hope.
I found other kisses. I looked everywhere, but for you.
A shadow, but life went on. Distrustful, sharper,
watching in the bright sunshine. But, every once 
I wondered, why did I feel like you 
held my heart in your hands? 

Forty-one years later, I saw you.
You were listed on Amazon, a published
mystery writer, a doctor without an office,
still roaming through life, hiding from something.
I read the book, but your essence wasn't there.
Heard from my sister that you had a band
of rock and roll throwbacks. 

Still in the shadows, but wiser, I'll never look again.
You had your mystery, your breath, a moment.
I'd rather wander the world, looking at other
mysteries, with someone who sees me with joy.
I like the dark lit jazz bars and paper 
umbrellas with the daylight sun. I found a man 
whose heart I hold, with a kiss, and stayed.