It started like a movie, with restaurants and trees and holidays.
We fit well together, like conversations on the Rhine
or braided leather belts from the 1970s.
Then came Madagascar.
Your face was a train without destination.
I was no saint, either, chipping away
at the cracks on the soles of your feet.
But how were we to know?
"You've grown your bangs," I said, as the flowers
on your dress renewed in infinite subscription
and your smile shone like a contract
etched in January snow.
