It gets you along the way, the wound. It starts in the arms, burning you with doubt as you touch her.
It climbs up to your shoulder, the doubt. The right one dropping first from the weight until like a child you are once again on your knees.
Only this time the tales are unkind, the characters more severe and you can’t fly anymore.
The clichés burn here. I am looking at you but I can’t see your face. I keep looking and there’s a figure, but I can’t say if it is you.
Is that you against the sunset? I remember the sunset, but is that you?
The wound has gotten into me. I only see the trees.
Come back. Let me see your face.
Come back. Let me know it is you.
Photographs: Geric Cruz | Text: Dennese Vzmyn Victoria | Website: gericcruzphoto.weebly.com
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