over and over

I fall in love
over and over again.

Years in between
and then a bus
a smell
some sunlight in the late afternoon

Is it them I miss
or the girl who loved them?

the curly black-haired drinker
the Australian
the married one
the motorcyclist

My heart breaks apart
over and over again

Is it love or nostalgia
for my own stories?

I don’t want to go back
but I am here
and they are empty spaces.

How is it a circle?
Is it a line?
Where are they?

I don’t mean Wisconsin or
Washington DC or
Minneapolis.

I mean

How can my heart hold them all
in there?
It must be huge,
with files stored in some
non-alphabetical
way–

by bee pollen
or rainbow,
by the sound of a fiddle at dusk.

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