A relationship

Thirty five years ago
somewhere some day
we found ourselves
in a little boarding house
in Cambridge, England,
we encountered each other -
the Great Dane, a bitch,
you named me in a poem,
and
the sweet Aussie guy
I always thought of you
that way.
That evening we met at
our boarding house's host's
son's (genitives galore)
party - I was leaving
shorty after and
had not really made any
true friends -
you came from so far away
across from India
where you, awestruck,
described the people
- the poverty -.
By chance
your life and mine
intertwined that Sunday
after the party
talking - chatting - listening
grasping for
the thread of life
in our lives.
We held nothing back.
I do not think
we made love that first day,
but later before I left -
we did.
I departed on schedule
to go back to Denmark
and start my last year
of my bachelor's degree.
You were finished -
sort of and your career was
what I had dreamed of
in my childhood - journalism.
How could I not have
loved you -
I did in my own way -
but not in the sense
you wanted me to.
We met twice after
once in Cambridge again,
and later in the fall
the following year -
you came to see me.
I do not recall
whether you came one
more time - alas -
my mind refuses to
give up its secrets.
But during those two
years we wrote by mail
every day - maybe twice
three times daily
so nothing was hidden,
except I thought
I could never go and
live in Australia.

The correspondence
grew thinner
years passed -
you and I married
(apparently three days apart)
yet not the same year
and not to each other.
We kept on writing.

One kid here
one kid there
between us
six children - three each.

Fast forward
thirty three years.

With an unknown hand
fate placed me in Aussie
for the surprising birth
of my first grandson.
We were scheduled to meet,
alas, he was late
so I did not go to
our encounter.

Almost two years later
my other grandson
announced to the world
that he had come
- and I had to return
to the land of OZ -
no longer scary
no longer unfamiliar.

This time you came
and we had an almost
reenactment of that first
Sunday in Cambridge.
We talked - and talked
for dear life as if
we were never to talk again.

We talked maturely
about everything
like we used to
thirty five years ago.
Our spouses, our kids,
my grand kids,
your oldest who is not
what he might have been.
of my oldest and his
roundabout journey
to the land of walkabout.
We talked of sex
we talked of no-sex
we interacted as if
we had been living a dream
- yet somethings were
not the same.
A little spark of divine
Eros fluttered in a
Melbourne hothouse
due to - maybe - never again.

I followed you to
the airport bus
with the hope to see
you when again
I shall descend
upon your native soil
this Spring for
a wedding.

When you departed
I could not go straight
home, but found
a concert of Wagner's
"The flying Dutchman".
You left me, but
I deserted you
so many eons ago.
Yet your death -
your fleeing being -
reflects my mirage
and I shall forever
mourn what could not be
because I did not dare
- yet the memory of
our scant meetings
and somehow our
poetical soul-matings
will be honored
as long as I shall live.