In the Village

Ten years, you said,
earlier in the day,
as if it were something we might set down
beside the coffee cups.

Now the evening has come in quietly.
The road slopes toward the water.
A few people pass.
No one looks at us for long.

You walk beside me,
not speaking,
then touch my arm
for no particular reason.

The sea has already begun to lose its color.
It does that quickly here.
Blue gives way without protest.

We have stood in places like this before.
Not this one exactly.
But near enough.

A light comes on behind us.
Voices gather.
Someone laughs.

We do not turn.

Your hand stays in mine
a little longer than necessary.
We both notice.

It is not something we speak of.

Ten years.
It seems both accurate
and insufficient.

There were other versions of us
that did not arrive here.

This one did.

We stand a while more.
Then we go back,
as we always do.

Nothing has been secured.

Still,
this has not been taken from us.