I've been tinkering with this one for a little bit. Sometimes it feels like encountering a person from the past causes the past to live again, if only when certain elements are present. I don't have a title for this yet, but the working title is Girls.

     Girls, I remember you as women.  That is, 
     I remember you, as a man.  I remember 
     the Important Ones, ones that taught me 

     Lessons.  Some girls I grasp ghostly gasps 
     of, the outer ripples of a taste of, perhaps 
     the way I didn't like her when she kissed.  

     Some girls I remember immediately, reasons
     why we never see each other anymore.  
     Some girls I wonder what the fuck happened 

     to and what I did to undo it, even if only
     a bra.  Sometimes I find a hair in some long 
     unworn shirt or held static in a notebook, 

     tracing fingertips along its length as if doing so 
     will place it back into your scalp, my fingers 
     on the nape of your neck.  Some girls I remember 

     for perfect moments, or the inference of one, 
     as a draft felt in the wake of someone passing.  
     I remember I said “I love you,” countless times,

     never bothering to count the times I meant it.  
     I learned nothing, except two became one,
     became two, becomes one again, that long ago

     in a tongue now forgotten except in the pulp
     memories of dust from a thousand codices, two 
     as one-by-one, flames on separate wicks, each 

     illuminated, never intersecting, never crossed.