He was brave, often bold, never indifferent
yet he always seemed aged in the ways of men,
old as in wise, rational, practical.
Each time we met, talked or just glanced across a room
his eyes told me the secrets of his heart.
It was enough to fill a crock pot of memories.
For twenty years, day out, day in
I saw his name on mail or heard his voice when
I listened to messages stored away
to be listened to again and again when I needed him.
The memories of a single kiss, a couple hugs and
the wonders of love tomorrow filled my days
and flavored my nights. By rights, he was not mine.
Yet he was. It was enough. He kept his promises,
fulfilled his duties, paid his bills when due
and went home free of debt and much gratitude.
I won't tell our story, the only part of him I never had to share.
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