Our story isn’t a file of photographs.
The upended book falls from your
lap or from the kitchen tabletop
with the cover of victoriously armored
women perched upon a bow
or a balcony. You slow motion through
such tales of heroine afterthoughts
as if they were our story in reverse.
The shutter of the camera never captured
their story as much as ours, with words
that blew over every coffee shop we stalked
at 2 am. You mime the Virginia Woolfs
of our day, though she never existed
in my mind. What cyclical breathe calls
you so admonishingly to a day when our
story was, indeed, a file of photographs?
You never understood and neither did I.
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