Andy Denzler, Paintings of paused VHS clips
It’s strange the way your face now has shifted. I used to be able to remember you, every eyelash, every wayward hair of your beard; I used to be able to sit for hours contemplating the exact curls of your hair, the way the veins in your eyes used to fork off from each other like tiny rivers, and I loved each one.
I spied on you today, you know, but your face was out of focus. I didn’t recognize the frames of your glasses; are they new? I didn’t recognize the words you wrote, or the shape of your nose, even though I’ve felt your nose before, felt it between my breasts, felt your lips, your tongue, your finger tips on all the trembling parts of me, felt like I was coming apart from love of you.
There was a time when I would have cried to see the ways she’s thrown her heart at you, but now I can’t even be bothered to wonder how you respond. You are a part of my past, paused and blurred. I see you through the rain sometimes; you come unbidden on storm air.
I do miss you, you know, but it doesn’t hurt quite so much, or at all. You are a figure I see on a screen. You are something I write in a story. You are a figment. You are a nothing more than a “Happy birthday” (late), than a “Merry Christmas” (you don’t celebrate it), than an old song I hear on the radio (you always hated the song that makes me think of you, I remember.)