I never took the lens cap off.
But there was a girl here once,
in this room; this quiet space in time.

It is a feeling, a happening.
Just as only once like Holiday I had an April in Paris.
This is a feeling.

Anaphoric, destined to be repeated.
Anaphoric, like scissors chopping; redoing.
Resculpting structures in my mind.

There was a girl here once, unlike some others.
But still, alike so many in a sense,
the strangest sculpture I've ever seen.

The small of her back, aviators on the floor.
God, like her spine was hand-made.
Like her existence was improbable.

Oh, now I know why junkies want heroine.
Once you feel it once you need it again,
and again, and again, and the girls after her
were all my relapse; my sickly coping mechanism.

But not because I couldn't help it.
Because there was a girl here once,
with thick rimmed glasses and a smile.
And most importantly, a heart.

There was a girl here once. Anaphoric, like scissors. Repeating.
And when she left I was searching for her, longing for my closure.