Old flame

I carried it gingerly,
in the deeper chambers
of my stricken heart.
trying not to spill,
cupping my hands
in delicate gestures
like an Indian dancer
to protect it from
cruel winds and angry
birds that descend on
me in times of desolation,
and the warm fluttering
butterflies of  unreal
happiness  that haunt
me like mirages on
desert oases. A caravan
of memories, with their treasures,
hidden away from the
searing summer gaze of
crowds and metallic gray
monsoon clouds, come
floating by. In my desert isle.
I hold it gingerly, the
pain that nourishes me,
like a little cup of oil,
still warm and alive,
stirred by memory
and desire, still a wellspring
of magical possibility on
warm wet autumn nights,
the slick wick ready to be lit,
even by old passions that
had grown hard and cold.
But then, news magazine and
passport in hand, the dusty
antiseptic feel of airplanes
on my dry flaky skin, I saw her.
The same smiling brown eyes,
the same heart-shaped face.
callowness cooled by heavy
suitcases, chin grown heavy
from the pleasant chores of life,
her fat sat gracefully on her
like a secure shell, and the kid
she held by the fingertips, gave her
as much pleasant trouble
as the suitcases. "Could you help me,
mister?" She looks up, sees me
Her gaze begins to freeze, casual
formality...flash of recognition..surprise
melting into a brown liquid smile,
I still could read her eyes
after eight long years of carrying
it well-wrapped and protected
inside me. But the sight of her
confused me.  I loved her memory,
I loved my unrequited love, I loved her
like an idea - but the sight of her
turned me off, the thought of platitudes
repelled me, I hated her, suitcase and kid,
I looked away pretending not to see.