Everything I wanted to say is tricking away, diffusing, like fragile light. The tongue cannot push out the correct words into the loaded air, for it won't take anymore sounds, too full have we made it in the afterglow.
Instead I'll take a camera and have it focus on the sheets tangled around your legs, and then the way the light pierces through the curtains to trail over your hips, highlighting the ridges of your ribs. I'll take a photo of your ear, for all the things it has heard, and your eyes, for all of me that you have seen, and your lips, for all the places they found that I did not know existed.
Or maybe I'll leave the clicking shutters and whirring of film canisters for another time and simply lie by your side, my fingers entangled in your hair.
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