We were strangers,
once, I think,
we must have been.
Twelve months ago
I would not have cringed
at the sound of your name.
You may have passed me on the street
and I did not turn my face away.
I only assume that time must have existed,
but I can only imagine fragments in which
my little bed with the white sheets
did not bear the indentations that remain
of your shuddering body.
Do your thoughts drift sometimes and
wonder what could have been?