You were eighteen
I was twenty-one
the war had just begun
but hadn't come to us,
it hadn't spilled blood
in our streets and alleys
or dumped bodies
on our doorsteps yet.
You danced along the cobblestones,
casting shadows on the rock walls
of our town as the sun shined bright
but not as bright as your eyes or mine -
I knew I loved you that day
as you pirouetted to your own ballet.
We were young and foolish
and believed nothing would come between us.
Then the guard marched on Town Square
and broke down every door.
They tore people from their homes
and left this place an empty graveyard.
Days stretched into years
I wrote letter after letter
and inquired everywhere,
then began to fear the worst
and mourned the lovely young lady
I had come to love so much.
Imagine my surprise the day
you walked by my cafe
with a man on your arm.
A hundred thoughts and emotions
exploded like fireworks
in my mind at once:
you were alive! what joy!
you were with him... what confusion
and enthusiasm faded to sadness,
which succumbed to numbness.
That was decades ago,
yet every time our paths cross
in the street or in my store,
you start to smile
and my heart begins to soar.
Hope blossoms like a flower
in a field of ashes,
then you say
"it's too lovely a day
for you to still be alone,
why have you found no one?"
"I have been waiting,
waiting all these years
for you, my love" I respond,
then you shake your head and say
"We are not children anymore,
we were lost in the war"
before you return to your husband.
As I watch you retreat
I see shadows
of our younger selves
dancing on the rock walls
and pirouetting on the cobblestones.
I ache for the chance to change history,
shed a tear and head home alone.
Honorable mention
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