Melissou 29

I whisper your name between sips of coffee,
fold you into the linen I hang in the Athenian sun.
Sometimes I imagine your laughter echoing
down these unfamiliar streets,
filled with noise and orange blossoms.

You are not stepping on marble,
not in the future which I nurture
like my olive tree rooted in Cycladic stone.
You will not walk through the doorway,
or fall in love with the sight of Kallimarmaro
and the evening warmth.

And yet,
somehow,
you are the reason I got here.

I want you to know:
this life I am shaping
with clay-stained hands and a tired heart,
I am making it beautiful,
the way you might have done.

And the echo of what could have been
still brushes my skin,
a sting of golden light
clinging to salt-kissed arms.