I can feel the frame, the texture of wood, the chipping of gold paint. I can feel where the frame steps off onto the smooth surface of glass. And beneath, you and I on a windowsill in a loft at a party – June 1995. You in trousers and shirt as usual, holding half a glass of white wine. Me in a pink leotard and black mini-skirt, a pearl necklace wrapped around my wrist. It is a black and white photograph but my mind can pour in the colour as sure as I can taste the flavour of the sip of wine I had just asked you for.
That I can't find the picture kills me almost as much as losing you. I can pretend I am holding it the way I pretend I am holding you on a summer evening in your penthouse above a city street until morning.
summer heat –
on the bedroom wall