Until I Do Not

I walk past the park where you did not
play
and did not toss stones into the shallow
pond
laughing as the ripples ran outward to stir the
leaves
on the surface.
I glance away from the school you did not
attend
and did not skip jump across the hopscotch patch chalked on the
asphalt
shrieking with the girls when the boys stole your
stones
from the squares.
I do not hold your hand
or braid your hair
or know the color of your eyes.
And I am happy, most days, until
I do not kiss your cheek and half catch the whorl
of your ear
and a strand of your hair
with my lips.
Then this lavender-scented sorrow
pulls me past the park where you did not
play
and where I wonder again over the color of
your eyes.