and still the soft dust falls, the late summer fragments in slow delicate precise visionary random chaotic flurries and torrents, the down slide treacle grasp of gravity, gnawing its sepia ever insistent at our ankles, irresistible the dust fall, but undefeated we sit around gazing at the distant screen, still white heat burning through this graduated downpour of our memories, the wisdom is in the projector hum, the scent of crisp aged film fills your nostrils and takes you back, throws you back with such nostalgic vigour that you awake stunned and bruised in a partially hazy imagined childhood from a period unknown but treasured and closely held to your lips, you know, for kissing, that's what they're at the edge of your mouth for, didn't you know, your saliva river's inside stickily raging and backed up for effusive release, when all the joy is so tightly packed it begins to dissolve at the core and melt and fuse itself together to form an invincible impenetrable thick crystalline formation, and no-one can take that from you now, the whirr of your internal fears now slips into synchronisation with the sweet cyclic projector motions, they're playing our movie baby, the one where you used to love me, but know we're here with different eyes, older and dry from the dust, this falling soft haunting dust as the remembrance is diffracted and scattered, piece these miniature particles together again in some form enough to offer us some comfort that we're not as numb as we're to be told we are, the slow reels are turning with their own unique cranky edgy momentum and burning our frames back into us, the still captured images played back in sequence so we are forced to recollect but with the tenderness of honey seeping through your toes, I haven't worn shoes for years anyway, they began to cut off my blood and thoughts, I've already lost too much to bear another amputation, the sadness is pushed back into our eyeballs, I'm trying to settle down and gently inhale these hypnotic pictures, the delicious monochrome fluttering on a forlorn reflective screen, singing our blues before we even have the chance to read the script, we are all just actors, we deceive and pretend, pretend we like then hide our hatred, but our fondness will never wane, you and me and our mythical cast will always be playing out the same wondrous scenes, we'll always end up happy and weeping in the careless rhythmic grasses of a compassionate distant hillside, and somewhere from within the darkness your hand reaches out and squeezes my sorrow, strokes me calm again, and I am reassured, I can't hear detail of your whisper above the rattling projection but I know your words are healing me, like this film showing is healing me, unleashing the tattered past again to be realigned, or at least be better and more fully understood, and who's behind the screen anyway, I see a shadow but only a shadow, we can never know, your moist breath against my weary neck is all I care for, don't leave me now just press those brave ambitious lips against mine, we can see nothing through this musty summer deathly air, only the soft dust falling, so let your senses collapse and ingest, as they did as when we were the children in shot movie camera, there's you with your flowers, always woven into matted hair and me younger and fearless just gazing into your eyes like it was the first time I'd tasted holiness, and it probably was, where are we raised to now, do you still feel my smitten gaze through your eyelids when you're sleeping, do you still hear my heartbeat when your paranoia's creaking and spitting splintered shards into the measured eloquence of your unfailing hope, I know the film's burned and passed now, in the ghostly backwoods of my awareness I hear the helpless pleading and rattling of empty reels, but I'm gone from there and you're still here with me, maybe we can now never return, but maybe we won't ever need to...