Capture

It hasn’t been me and Frankie since the first day, and I can remember every second of it, irrevocably burned into the neurons and synapses of my temporal lobe. Yesterday flickers ominously; it blurs and dissolves like ribbons of melting celluloid spilling through my head, my hands – but I know every minute of the day I met Frankie by heart. The smell of his clothes. The Technicolor whirlwind of costumes at a party, feathers and capes and Mardi Gras beads all glowing a thousand hues of purple and green and gold in the dusky evening air. The sight of him, a glowing seraph alone with a glass in his hand.

*working title, temporary layout.