She never tasted my special rice,
a treat that required rosemary and thyme
to simmer for hours
which made the rice long for Indonesia.
She never cared for me when I was sick,
my health unnaturally buoyed
by my undaunted faith
in our Romantic Destiny.
She never heard my vocal group,
daring in its conceit,
wildly funny, sometimes,
yet innocent, somehow.
She never met my friends,
whose eyes would have questioned
the wisdom of my selecting
someone so different
(yet similar in my eyes)
that they’d have been blinking at me for weeks.
In our brief but potent four months together
she saw and felt many things.
were not one of them.