the personal museum (1)

A propos of yesterday. There are always too many words, or not enough. This time last year I felt different about this image, about you. Images were sufficient because the grief was a found-photo: there was longing, gradually fading at the edges, but comfortingly constant. Now, they’re inadequate. Relationships are in continual flux, even after they end; yet the images of you remain frozen, rejecting dialogue. And they hold up the image as evidence of your immutable divinity.

The image is not enough, but it’s all I have, so for that reason I’m writing to you now. To explain that I need to escape your image, your fixed gaze that still refuses to see me after all this time. I’ll carry it with me—how can I not when our faces are so similar—but I must frame it differently. I hope you’ll understand that at times I’ll have to look away, even as, you’re looking at me.