She Doesn’t Know


She doesn’t know
I still play that song
but on the computer now
instead of the old scratchy
record that we used to play.
She doesn’t know
that sometimes I find myself
driving miles out of the way
just to go by the place,
that place where
we used to dance in the moonlight
and walk hand in hand.
She doesn’t know
I kept the scrap of paper
with her name
and phone number
written in barely legible blue ink.
A piece of paper
I picked up off the ground
afraid to trust just memory
for this one I didn’t
want to get away.
She doesn’t know
how many long, long nights
I’ve watched the stars for hours
into the night
and thought of her.
Thought of her touch,
her laugh.
She doesn’t know
I ran out of love
the day we parted
and never found a way
to fill that void again.
She doesn’t know
that right now
this very minute
if she was still in this world
and, if I knew where she was,
where she lived.
I would drive there
just to see a light in her window.
Not stop
just drive by and know
she was close.
She doesn’t know
I think about the stupid things
I have done
and know none compare
to the night I just
drove away happy
to be free.
And yet, never to be free
of the memories
that the song reminds
me of with each note.
She doesn’t know.

Michael Mathews
11-20-16 9:51 PM
Sunday night. . . .