I recall the pictures of cherry blossoms (or were they apple
blossoms, I’m never sure) she took during her trip to Newark, back when she
still believed she could make her way in the world with her camera, pink
everywhere, and I was in awe, her world laid out before me like an open oyster,
making me ache for a taste, and now, this side of summer, we wait for the trees
to change, leaves bleeding and falling, autumn coming yet not quite yes, as if
we wait for the end of the world, tempting fate, and ache for an embrace, we
can’t hasten, or invite, scared to death of the consequence, the harsh reality
of our last fateful attempt. What do we do when none of the dreams of cherry
blossoms come real, and we live to watch the leaves change, summer into fall,
fall into winter, and then the cherry blossoms again, as I cling to old photos,
imagining her with her camera, snapping pictures of a dream that won’t ever
come true.
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