She wanted me to see a pair of cities, wound within the desert like small hawks, branching shadows, hardened grain under green suns.
I could see the stone, the break, the climb of unnatural rock—and the bodies—the man and woman climbing away from the rooftops, born of them, extending into watercolors.
She replaced the notebook.
I wasn’t supposed to see their faces.
Summers turned to winters turned to cold. His body continued like all the others, somewhat clockwise. Irises appeared to darken with rain, skin to brighten with snow. The blood continued.
She wished she’d kept at least one of the pictures, something resembling a lock of hair, a dimple, a blur of color. The orange against the floor was like a bear, hanging from the ceiling, leaning on the walls—the white of the walls was spotted with small, framed portraits of lost children. What she perceived to be lost was another story.
His knuckles bloomed like cherries, fingers kneading into the cushions, turning his hands and the couch into something like sunrise. His eyes stared at the glass, see-through coffee table.
He’d forgotten her—forgotten the taste of water.
Image/Inspiration: Salvador Dali’s Archaelogical Reminiscence of Millet’s “Angelus” (1935)