I am looking for myself in your pictures.
A hint of my wild hair in the angle of your pencil line,
the color of my freckle at the edge where your pen began to bleed.
Here, you are always in my words:
The curve of each vowel suggesting the roundness of your lower lip,
the straightness of my consonants your proud spine, your cheekbones cut like glass.
Our history has always lived here, in the spaces between,
this dance steeped in secrecy, potent and swirling, hidden by casual snaps of our wrists,
by the nonchalance of our contrived explanations.
So far, always so far
from each other. From the truth.
So far from the late nights spent scheming,
the darkness we wore like a statement.
Like it meant something.
And did it?
Is there meaning still in these curling fingers? these renditions?
In the quiet gaze of the stars that watched us, then and now,
the constancy of our fickle hearts the only reliable witness.
Ever changing. Ever moving away.