there is an actual thing you do;
between pay-out and pigment,
something untouched
and oily with our touch.
You said it was oily with my touch.
I’ve never given myself a chance to apologize.
And we’re both just standing there,
broken glass at our feet
and I’m so fixated on forgetting Saturdays
and you’re laughing
prodding
reminding me.
The sun glares into the frame
and the scene ends as the music fades into.
God, I try not to let my speech err.
God, I try not;
if only it had Been.
