The only thing between me and two thousand and three
is our flimsy paper memory
film negative relief and an inverse interpretation of colour
our tiny window
to crawl through
into the comfortable past old patterns familiar neural paths
like slipping into a deep warmed bath, or so I’m told
but what would I know?
The only thing between me and you is an undeveloped reel
you are my banana-skin pratfall you are my Achilles’ heel
and the only thing we held in common was our shared despair
we saw the world for what it was and there was nothing else.
You have been framed
four edges to your page
four corners to your cage
no point no purpose
no results to display.