“I wish we’d fit the picture frame.”

“I wish we’d fit the picture frame”, were words whispered onto a window covered in rain drops.

And if so,
would these hands still play with ebony hair?
Would there be arms to hold onto, strong but fragile?
Fragile in the end, but holding on,
although her shoulders escape the neckline of her dress?
The picture frame?

“If we’d fit the picture frame …” was a sigh into a purple shade of sky.

Would there still be bonfire flavoured kisses?
Would hair be admired?
Taken by the wind?
Blown into chaos?
Blown out of the picture frame?

“But if we’d fit the picture frame,
would I still be safe in those softest eyes?
Would you able to imagine our life?
Without blurring out?
Without losing focus?” , were questions for the storm.

“You’re so adorable, but I have not need for you”, was a truth spilled into a Caramel Latte.
Life tends to fly by
frame after frame
in well-known images
imagined and pictured.

“I admire you, but I can’t fit you anywhere”, was a truth to drown in a bottle of wine.
Being seen
meant fitting in those frames
that never fit them
or anything they touched.

“If we’d fit the picture frame, it would not have been us”, were words for night to fall.