gallery

on the other end of a camera lens,

sweetly sitting

or framed in curtains and flowing silk

like raindrops down your body,

flow to the floor, and

gaze upon the other side.

so, too, are the whispers,

like gentle paintstrokes

across your collarbone

they sit in the light, they all do,

with those glittering ceilings arching

like heavenly eyebrows above,

and lanterns dipping down like

hands to feed them light

cracked tile under their feet,

to tie up their skirts or their tongues,

and doorways upon doorways,

a maze of open rooms

flit like a bird

sit still and pout

look straight ahead

fill their souls

or be forgotten

immortalized on their walls,

displayed and beautiful and ornate.

more than just you, but

becoming the eye: the place for the eye to wander,

to sink its teeth in and pretend to know you

on the other end of the camera lens,

knowing or unknowing

and becoming a moment in the past

for someone in the future.