Stepping Out of the Monochrome

Black and white movies, old even when I watched them flicker still on an inner retina. A hero turns conspiratorially, staring into my future; what he said into the camera then, is silent now but I see his lips move as if he were predicting this moment. A heroine hikes her skirt over her thighs; blood fills the flesh of memory, a dialogue recalled by younger nerve-endings. I remember I love her, but it is too late, she is dead and she did not die young, her ancient hand seems to grasp my fingers now, seeking closure. King Kong lives a broken life in my hall closet. At night I hear him weeping still for that little platinum haired women. He is no longer tortured, angry, and confused, but he forgets stuff, Nightly I still have to explain to him that the sound of buzzing biplanes is only the air-conditioner kicking in. Eventually we both slip into sleep.