Its strange how I find ways into you,
losing and finding my way through,
in moments of inebriated calmness
as I falter my way across cobbled streets
and speeding cars and the glowing light bulbs of the night,

otherwise in moments of frantic search
for a misplaced ticket,
flipping through books, words falling upon words
cutting through it and  my searching vision
an old picture torn into four
in some fit of anger,
piecing it together I sit staring at myself, years younger smiling at you
behind the lens,
in amusement over something you said.

I am holding onto a branch leaning on to me with my weight,
my face a study in contrast
the sun hitting me on one side
diffusing gold into my hair,
and half hidden in shadows the other remains
soothsaying of  ensuing dusk,
I am struggling to look beautiful, pouting my thin lips out and aah,
you said, 'the tree is less wood than you today'
and I broke into the photo
and like that
and like that you owned me and that moment,
like that you own me and this moment
forgetting about the journey and its lost tickets.