Pentimento

I read something in my
hand
the other day.
I thought it was mine
but
it was his.

Still
I know not whether
fear or excitement,
sadness or joy,
should follow that
realization.

No matter what,
it ends at the

 end

of a noose.

Darling,
do you remember
when the pictures,
when all
the pictures
were

only

for me.

Do you remember
the furtive attempts
made

only

for me.

Or
does it seem to you
now
that they have

always

the pictures,
that they have

always

been there,
that they have

always

the pictures,
come
when you called;

the Hannibal blues,
the liquorice nights,
the sapient sepias

simply

appearing,
summoned from sleep
without thought,
now
on display for

all,

for everyone
but me.

Disregarded,
Cassie and I have
retreated,
crawling, falling

back

into the cave
against the inner walls
where all good
muses
go to die;

no longer needed
no longer wanted
no longer necessary.

Chaste
reminders of
pictureless times
when there was

only

and

forever

white

and

black.

Is there
ever
a shooting moment
when you remember
me;
a shooting moment
when you forget
The Others.

Less is more.
Who taught you that
in the thirty minute word;
who calmed the harassed
edges of what you

thought

you wanted into
who
you are.

The moons were,
will always be,

mine;

bleu
and beyond.
Their ice-black maars
belong to me, even though
they
are now on display for
everyone

but.

The awesome shot
is also mine, would not
exist
but for me.

Do you remember?
Do you remember?

The world from which I am
barred
would never have been
recorded
but for me.

But for me.

And
in each shot,
I bleed through;
translucent and soft,
opalesque and piquant,
invisible

even

to you.

 

 

© sd rogers 14 december 2012

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