Best of Times

May be the best of times are actually behind us. May be.

The time you fed me poached eggs on the kitchen counter. 

The day I sat where the rocks parted for the sea and took a picture.

That time when I had an infinite number of drinks and slept on the bathroom floor.

That afternoon I bought flowers for myself, long stemmed gerberas with water droplets glistening.

The evenings, numerous evenings of coffee and smokes. In the garden. In the cafe. On my particular table.

The days I took off, stayed home and wrote stories during.

The mornings I walked into the river water and pretended to catch fish.

The time I bought my wedding dress.

The time I bid you goodbye. For the last of many many times. 

Yes, all those.

Those times, the best of them.

Are way behind us now. Locked up in memories. Like fossils. Or like zoology specimen in formaldehyde.