Caesura

He never translates well
to film.  The heat of his
summers, like white shoes
and ice pink suits, always
melts in the celluloid sun.

How was it I did not know.
Was I the only one who
did not know.  And why;
Why could you not tell me.

Thirty was so far away and
there was never any winter
where we were.  Where we
were was always warm, was
always light and fresh and

young.

I knew only that I was never
enough, that I was always
too much, that whoever you
wanted me to be, whoever you
kept trying to make me,  I never

was.

And I never suspected.
Not even once.
Not even for a moment.
I never suspected it was

you.

©sd rogers 20 october 2012

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