Perfect

I would say it was the perfect bar,
Smooth, dark, evenly grained wood
Small, tucked into a quiet corner,'
No music, save the sounds of the street outside the
Window nearby, thick and clean and protective,
Only two stools, high but steady,
Upholstered in dark, skin-soft leather
Bartender dressed in crisp, brilliant white and
Deep, stainless black,
Ready to take our order,
With a slight smile, but no comment.

I would say it was the perfect drink,
Served ice-cold in a tall, slender glass, but
One that curved in at the top, rather than out, so it
Held the liquid intact, as we toasted and sloshed it about,
And retained its icy chill without frozen bits
Interfering with the acrid snap of the liquor,
The hint of citrus tang of the lime,
And the barest kiss of vermouth.

I would say it was the perfect toast,
One with no words,
Just the rims of glasses touched,
For a second,
Eyes looking into each other,
Which is always painful and powerful,
As it uncovers the soul.

I would say it was the perfect kiss,
That followed the toast,
One lasting only a minute or so,
Under the averted gaze of the bartender,
Who pretended not to notice,
Lips warm and soft, not pressing,
Tongue sliding across mine, not engulfing
Mine, and
Just enough, just enough, to make me
Feel that there was more.

I would say it was the perfect night,
Walking out of the little bar, onto the
Bustling street, the busiest street in the world
They say, one where people stroll back and forth and
Back and forth again just because it feels good to move
This way, and to watch and wonder.
We walked up and down,
Your hand touching mine softly, occasionally squeezing,
But not binding, and I felt
Your body press against mine through
The thin fabric of my coat,
Too thin to guard against the sudden breeze that must
Have come from the sea nearby, but
Not so thick that I couldn't feel you.

I would say it was the perfect moment,
But then the night ended,
And your hand let go of mine,
Without a look
Or a kiss
Or a word
And then
It was over
You walked into the darkness of the night,
Looking back for just a second
With eyes that averted mine
Like the embarrassed bartender
Who saw something he felt was not his concern
And you were gone.

I felt the cold breeze that comes from the nearby sea at that moment.
There was nothing but the thin fabric of my coat to protect me and
What was left of a perfect martini and
Nothing else but
The faint, thin promise of something possible,
Possibly unlikely,
Yet perfect,
Yet to come.