The way you hold out your arms like a puppeteer
in an empty room like you’re still in motion, as though
you’re dancing with someone not there.
Who are you? In a world leaked of colour, your
black and white exposures show off your beauty,
and the curious tired dream where things just happen.
It is late and I find myself staring, and you stare back
as if I’m naked too. Young eyes full of life, cat-like – body
bends and contorts to unusual shapes. You crouch in the
corner and look at me, but I never really existed
I can’t see your eyes in this picture, you look off to one side,
the nakedness of your bare neck, the cords of your neckline delicate,
a thin necklace above your breasts.
And I had forgotten how to read music
nothing out of place, nor the paper in your palm, like a bird.
Long-exposed, obscure faces blurred: beautiful,
but the more I look, I don’t know who you are.
In 1981 you jumped out of a window on the East Side of New York
where you died, ‘guard had been let down.’
© Michael Holloway