Must Capture

He deserved more than a shitty poem on the back of a beautiful photograph.
The lack of space to embrace my real age came to change everything. But the way the hands placed themselves onto the lens. The ways to capture a face and to figure out the parts that remain. That may say something meaningful.
He must have read poetry back when he was my age. Must have made love to Parisiens or at least held a pair of loving breasts. Restless nonetheless. The lessons always grabbed by the horns. I yearn for another chance through those doors.
But the forlorn days aren’t to be retraced. Perhaps the way the lines allowed themselves to fall was enough to entice the broken mind. And perhaps in time we will find the loose ends again, to regain the chance to another end to that awful poem.
Lonely are the days not spend. Seated beneath the ways to seize at least a fraction of the constellation. Was this the very face of hope we stumbled upon amidst those dark hallways?
But to rephrase means to adjust, to alter, to evolve, to dream where the clouds have seemed to evaporate themselves. Stacking the shelves now, filling up the last part of a tied brain. The stained glass teaching me about the deformation of light. The brightness of a doomed future laid bare.

-D.