It seemed our source was one of wilted flowers, too little of light
and water—the shades were drawn—and vases knew nothing
of windowsills. In other words, we were starved; affection’s ribs
were showing. You, a cigarette at lunch, and me a voyeuristic stare.

 It was summer. Were two equal to July’s humidity? You were
sworn to a waitress’s uniform, black or red. Red would have been
too much, passion on top of passion for one who could not afford
to be too evident…. That house and all its secrets set back from the
road, where cars rarely passed. The shutters shook when a plane
flew overhead.

 Thinking back, was there anything I knew about you? Other
than your long, painted nails, high-pitched voice laced with smoke,
the weight you didn’t need to lose when the jury neared its verdict.
Dark chocolate—your favorite. The angle of the day determined
the chocolate’s sweetness or its bitter aftertaste.

 The years have passed, more than doubling our ages. Do you
go back as often as me? Or was the damage such that the film gets
caught in the reel, flickering upon the same tragic, ending scene?