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.