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Face to face
eye to eye
questions to answers
our flesh could be anywhere:
momentarily stranded
in a sleepless
Seattle café
on a rainy twilight, or
high noon straddling
the lascivious sunlight
of a Haitian shore, while
the orbs of our thoughts
were oblivious
of the physical

they had a mission
to be true
bounce off each other’s echoes
to break things apart
at our leisure
sew scraps of fabric
onto each other and see
what comes out

story of my life
slid off my fingers with ease
like 24-carat gold rings
a size too big
metallic sounds of remembering
wrote figures of 8
on your table top,
while quietly you
emptied your pockets
of your own receipts
issued by experience and
those round-trip tickets
the return flights of which
you never took
fluttering onto my desk
in an array of
script and glossy color
some strong,
some darker than others

you took me at face value
when I told you
you don’t have to love me, and
it doesn’t have to be anything,
not a password to remember,
not an accessory
to wear around our ankles,
not a reinvented wheel,
a fifth season,
or such heavy things as
‘a new beginning’

just a crescent-shaped
imprint of light
to spend
before it expired

“Tiffany & Co. – Fall/Winter 2010” by photographer Peter Lindbergh