—I DON’T EXPECT YOU TO UNDERSTAND

 

 

 

The movie won’t end won’t end won’t end so we pretend to have sex again, pretend to love each other or ourselves, trying to recall the last time we did, when watercolors and dawn mattered more than memories, such bright beginnings seductive, erratic and erotic, a testament of will power and patience, a different, intangible reel unspooling then, the frames like sea glass chinking off our toes as the last water lapped and the sun dove while we cupped the sand, letting it slip through our fingers like a thousand bits of hope.