I was a lover, in love, and for that love—I lost. A falling love, unopened, packaged, sealed, returned to an address misspelled. The fingers rub—they tell someone, they long to hear, they long to feel—what a body reaches. It use to be with little flowering dimples and rosy cheeks, smiling. Excuse me my love, I was waiting for you, and then with you, we were—nothing but a place to venture, to exile. The curtains drop.
I am alone now. In a storyboard, next scene:
Years later
Dot dot dot.
Years later and I’m still painting. In this studio mixing paints in silence, flipping through postcards and photographs. My friends come and we talk. I admire what they do, they admire what I do, we are now forging new by-ways—we will last through all-times.
I’ve only recently opened my doors. Slowly at first, and only a notch, and for so long. How odd, no one knew me, how was someone to notice, and yet it was as if the world only needed me to drop an inch, or turn, for it to take me from the back.
Nothing happened in years. My door casually opened little by little. Imagine that, when people passed by on their way, that same door they always had—it never changed. Even when one day, after years, the door wide open, and all they saw was still the same— closed as ever, and ever, like a blinding cascade.
Next.
I am at the beach now. I am younger than before and all I can tell are that people surround me. A girl I remember kissing, walking alongside me, sitting, and reading. She’s beautiful—perhaps more than the last one—the most recent that is. If she only knew this years later. If what I told her she remembered.
And then that time. I was with a girl much younger. She was older than everyone knew, to me. And we kissed. This was only a little after the last, and so we managed. It ended in disaster, because of her friend, and me.
You can see where I am going with this.
Years Later.
