I'm lying in my seafoam bed,
alone in my depressive bedroom
staring at his old photographs
I start writing my short story for today
it's about the romance of a girl with an older man
she is a classical ballerina,
He is a powerful tycoon
she dances for him
like a Swan dancing in the lake
in the midst of sunset rain
In this lake,
there's a great poet
who swims every summer
in the late 1950s

I stop writing the story
and decided to eat
an English muffin toast
with blueberries,
sip my salted caramel
for breakfast
I realised
I was the ballerina
who keep on dancing
to find him
in the path of darkness
I'm the pink candle who blown by Him
I'm the Swan that He shot using His dangerous gun


He is the one
I took a photo of,
on the third day of March, 1963
using my classic 35 mm camera

© cfwang