Misconceptions

The first time I saw you,
I think it was somewhere
along a river
where the air was sharp and brisk,
at the beginning of the end.

For a fraction of a second,
your gaze held mine.

For a fraction of a second,
everything fell into place
with a resounding click.

The second encounter,
where you and I became the start of our mistakes,
there was a woman in your arm,
soon replaced by my hips.

There was a martini glass against my mouth,
soon replaced by your lips.

By the third meeting,
I had somehow led myself to believe
that you were the waves crashing into me:
the shore.

By the fourth,
you had somehow led me to believe
that substandard motels meant love,
and coarse sheets meant enrapture.

The end didn't come all at once.

Instead, it was slow and viscous
like dripping molasses;
a process of
falling into you,
falling into me,
falling out of us.