We, after years,
run into each other in the deli
you with your children,
I with none,
exchanging pleasantries
and introductions
and effusive promises to keep in touch.
You tell me about your burgeoning family,
but I do not hear you --
your voice is a static of statistics:
ages, birthdates, soccer victories, grade point averages...

As you talk
all I can think about
is the pale blush of your *******
and the little row of sweet kisses
I left between them
so long ago.