I went back to our memory today. 

The bench beneath us was white-washed

With the summer sun

And thousands of transient lovers’

Marks

Carved into its wood.

I wonder if the bench thinks fondly of me—

And you,

If it’s memory of us remains untouched,

Unchanged,

Perfect. 

Here, I thought we would never end.

Our love was undying, perfect,

It had no mortal flaw.

It was our happiest moment.

I wonder if the bench knew.

If something, in the placement

Of both your hands on its slats

Gave it away. 

 

I’ll hope, though,

That the bench couldn’t tell either.

I’ll hope that its white-washed wood

Still warms under the summer sun

And warps to make better room

For the next two,

And thinks

That we still love each other

As much as the bench loved us. 

I’ll hope,

That as long as we sit on that bench,

We are eternal,

And untouched,

And unchanged,

And perfect.