Neither of us thought it would end
the way it does in movies: hard rain,
you on your knees but your hands
on my wrists, keeping me away
from the scissors. My plea
repeats in three languages,
a subtitled lament losing nothing
in translation. Nein, I say, over
the thudding score, non, je vous
en prie. The scenes skid backward
through our years together,
the screen lightens and lifts,
you kiss me in a parking lot
and again underneath trees,
we move from bed to table
toward each other back to bed,
we cross a country holding hands
only to unclasp at the arrival lounge,
the music unrecognizable, our
dialogue gibberish. Your arms
unfold from around me, my
hands drop from your hair.
We return to the scene before
we met, neither of us poorer
in spirit, souls separate and
sweetly whole. No one has lied
in any language. No one wants
to see more, but still I spin the reel,
I want to see the opening credits
I want to see the title page no I want
the screen’s bright white light before
the story even begins, the projector,
nothing more.


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