hanging back on my heel.

hanging back on my heel

by james bezerra

i keep a picture on my laptop that I can make desktop in four clicks. five or six if i’ve been drinking. of you. walking away. only it isn’t you. because i don’t have a picture of you. like this. bag strap over your slim tan shoulder as you walk toward a bridge like a backbone that seems to lead to a baking azure sea. simple white tank top you wear. that you know i love. and your short hair twisting on a simmering breeze. the whole thing is very ocean summer. little black strings at the back of your neck. make me think of stowaway sand between our humid bodies. it isn’t you because it isn’t you. it is a fucking random internet picture from where i don’t even remember but i remember seeing it and knowing it was you and i had taken it on. hanging back on my heel. flipping camera switch. so in love with you. and your shape. just then. on a trip we never took. during a life we never thought to have. i click five times and there you are. looking away. i see you. just then. through a viewfinder. the girl who would have gone anywhere with me. i begin to wonder if it is a malaysian beach. what you have in your bag. if we’d spent the night before in a peg leg hut over some lagoon. or wrapped sweaty in giant palm leaves. i lean in toward you. now. wonder what tragedy would have to crush your life. now. to make you into this you. into her. with me. walking toward that beach. whatever it is. i realize. almost without conflict. i would accept.

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