its the memory of morning whispers and moonlight chandeliers
it is how she wished love remembered her
it is what she wants to see in the reflection of their eyes
it is the fine line between reality and fantasy
time escaping us
becoming us.
a vague recognition through the grain and dust
becoming us.
as real as summer snow
so quickly turning into the end of our wardrobe
willingly into Narnia.
a game we play as children
yielding to our past as if we had a choice
this is the moment our legs slip
and desire became fragments of our bodies
flashing through our minds like broken film strips in old theatres.
intimate moments fade further with each passing glance
and soon become unrecognizable.
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