“They made love, there on the studio floor,” she whispered,
The gallery crowd cackle fading under the ice of her breath.
I looked at the photograph.
“They say the photographer let it happen. Well, true passion cannot be controlled or left unchecked right?”
Outside,
Old Street drowned in
white noise
Her scent – a pyroclastic
crustation volcanic
crawled onto my shoulder, wrapped around my neck, weaved into my beard.
“They were inseparable for three months and then…”
I glanced to the side, not meeting her eyes – she wouldn’t want that – just catching the incline of her breasts as she inhaled.
“Then?” I asked
“Then, just like that,”
(she clinked our glasses)
“She was gone.
Some say she was married and went away to end it. Others say she rode a Ducati out West until she reached the Badlands – abandoned it in the parking lot of a motel,
then hitch hiked back.”
“Is she here to stay?”
I asked, looking again at the photograph -
her face as she was that day -
“You know better than to ask such things,” she said.
She then held her wine to my lips.
I sipped, she then kissed me.
And someone took a photograph of us
The reunited lovers –
someone laughed -
In the foreground and background
Of nowhere
Photograph by V Vertov.
