The picture, for one moment, clears
in the glint of a window cracked.
Between eyelids pregnant pinching glass,
shaky inhales of candle wisp disperse
into lantern blurs of paprika hair,
dancing in a dream in her living room,
all viewed from my own.
That day that never happened
loosens my grip on the world
even as I grasp to remember it.
Those street lights blink quicker
than this vision, and window shop art
seeps paint into my periphery,
down her walls, onto her fingertips,
with which she paints my mind,
strumming my heart beat by beat.
Then wishful deliberations
and almost memories hush
and shrink within a frame; I
hide behind these two dimensions,
wishing back what never was.
