My memory is
black and white
gritty film.

You, long hair,
open collar.

I was too young
to know better.

Now I see the light
through the trees.

This is more than
swan song, more than
last goodbye.

This is the way
the heart breaks.

Heat of projector
burns slim slides.
I am left with
hands too hot.
They callus into
a ripe world of a
hundred street lights.

Our yesterday.

This memory is
too precise to be
held in one grainy clip,
to be developed
into one picture
after another.

The spots form,
the film burns,
the memory fades.