my summer sang in me

while soaking
in the smooth warm
waters of my
bath, I stumble upon
Edna St. Vincent Millay's
poem,
'what lips my lips have kissed,
and where, and why'.
she wrote it when she was 31
and living in Greenwich village
during its halcyon days
of the nineteen twenties.
it's a bittersweet, nostalgic
piece of work. terribly sad
and beautiful. my summer sang
in me, she writes.
remembering those days
and night.
the lovers are referred to as ghosts
tapping at her window.
she's alone, the world outside
dark,
as I am now, listening
to the rain, contemplating
loves that have come and gone.
who hasn't been there? Sigmund
Freud said that all literature
and poetry
is about love and sex, and perhaps
death.
I don't deny that and neither
did she,
I imagine.