dover

Back at Dover again, alone,

wondering if we went anywhere at all.

Possessions packed in a hurry;

feelings jumbled quickly together

in anticipation of something special.

Passports in hand,

should either of us forget who we are,

or where we should return to.

Tickets at the ready;

future vestiges, telling of places to explore,

some of which of course, we’ll never reach.

We thought about what was to come here,

and here we are again.

Nothing to tell us if this is in fact a different moment,

if the visions we see are past or future;

what has happened, or what we hope to happen.

Thinking of all the things we did,

they seem too absurdly perfect not to be imagination:

things we dreamed, or are dreaming we’ll do.

How confident can I be, that if I turn to you

and tell you what a wonderful time I had,

you won’t tell me we’ve yet to have done anything,

or loved each other at all?

Standing at the bare port in Dover,

exactly as it was,

who’s to say if we’re coming or going?