4 Hours on Film

Silence is disrupted,

thousands of adjectives float across a sea of rumpled cotton.

Your arm – an anchor holding me to Earth,

a force keeping me from floating out to dance

with pictures living among glass panels.

Two hundred and forty minutes suspended in torrid air.

“You seem so wide awake.”

Loaded – but guised as a simple observation.

I stared at you for some odd hours,

neglecting all the syllables I recite now.

This night grows ever so distant -

I run the film when I want to see you again.

Palm on my cheek, lips brushing against my forehead.

A night now archived, Film by my gray matter.

Screened when I need reminding

of the divide

between then and now.