You were face to face with the painting,
breathing on the wall.
You saw it, recognized it, raised your lens,
looked closely at your screen to check the frame.
But then, your arm still raised, the painting still on
screen
I watched you turn your head – already scanning for the next famous
face.
Your lens looked longer than your two eyes.
When you scroll back to what you took, I wonder what you’ll
see?
A face you’ve seen a hundred
times – yes.
A beautiful mask. But not the painting.
Never the painting, breathing on the wall.
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I saw the lie in everything,
and because I was a cop in the final era of insanity
and you were my lover,
we saw through two sets of eyes the unravelling of the world;
We reminded desperate people that the language of negotiation took many forms,
but the first among them would always be fear.
I slid beneath cheap sheets, still reeking of burned rubber, and was comforted by the ghost-whisper spice of the pepper spray you wore along the knifeline of your jaw,
where the padded mandarin collar of your riot armor met the curve of your helmet.
I wanted you then as I want you now,
raw and dripping,
blood on your face that isn't your own,
blood that matched, upon DNA analysis, the blood on your nightstick and of a hundred other suspects.
If we had an exit strategy I can't remember what it was, save that it was naive.
We would sit on the roof of our apartment in lawn chairs and count the dark plumes of the evening's unrest as they curled steadily upwards towards a dead sky.
We waited for the end then, you and I. We waited, and watched, not caring.
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