[before the turning of faces]

before the turning of faces,
a moment slips in;
a recollection [of sorts]
faded memories, painted
freshly over with
cleansing glaze
they rip and stretch,
distort,
these moments bending under a will
not quite their own
[but quite]

the moments of your life,
flickering on a half-
broken projector in
the basement, slicing into
scars and pulsing
in the august heat
[always august, they said,
whispering over sticky vinyl seats]

abandon the seat
in back of the dovetailed
circle,
immerse [drown] yourself
in moments,
turn your face back
towards mine
and hear the whispers
see the slides
disappearing into
shadowed nothing
[you are not special,
you are not unique]

archives burn, the reel
ignites,
and all those moments
[the ones you watched
with detached resolution]
are burning [ripped]
and you, turning your face
back towards mine,
must find them in the spaces
[it is willed, you have your own]

look into the mirror
fractured frame
between spanned
fingertips-
who is looking back?
[we all look back]