Twenty-five years later
I finally allow
this memory to return:

how we had conspired
to pretend there was no plan,
no hotel reservation,

not even letting on
to our dinner companions
though one was your good friend;

how you’d brought along wine
to pour before you kissed me
and the outpouring that followed;

how the long night confirmed
our friendship had caught fire
but would not itself be quenched

on this first of many nights;
and how when the phone rang past noon
you answered, said a few words,

then hung up and told me
it was the front desk calling
to see if we were dead.