All The Men I Never Married

There was the boy I met on the park
who tasted of humbugs
and wore a mustard-yellow jumper

and the kickboxer with beautiful long brown hair
that he tied with a band at the nape of his neck

and the one who had a constant ear infection
so I always sat on his left

and the guy who worked in an office
and could only afford to fill up his car
with two pounds worth of petrol

and the trumpet player I loved
from the moment I saw him
dancing to the Rolling Stones

and the guy who smoked weed
and got more and more paranoid
whose fingers flickered and danced
when he talked

and the one whose eyes were two pieces
of winter sky

and a music producer
long-legged and full of opinions

and more trumpet players
one who was too short and not him
one who was too thin and not him

are you judging me yet, are you surprised?

Let me tell you of the ones I never kissed
or who never kissed me

the trombonist I went drinking with
how we lay twice a week in each other’s beds
like two unlit candles

we were not for each other and in this we were wise
we were only moving through the world together for a time

there was a double bassist who stood behind me
and angled the body of his bass into mine
and shadowed my hands on its neck

and all I could feel
was heat from his skin
and the lightest breath
and even this might have been imagined

I want to say to them now
though all we are to each other is ghosts
once you were all that I thought of

when I whisper your names
it isn’t a curse or a spell or a blessing
I’m not mourning your passing or calling you here

this is something harder
like walking alone
in the dusk and the leaves

this is the naming of trees
this is a series of flames
this is watching you all disappear.