It is you. No question.

the same easy lean, the full-pouted smile

and jacket tossed hastily over the shoulder.

You, perhaps twenty, leaning against

Baudelaire’s tombstone – so grand and roman lettered.

You do not know of me yet.

I am an ocean away.

Not even in your country.

It is as if I hardly exist.

Just a girl of nine.

While you, you already you had discovered

the wonders of adulthood; still a boy, yes,

but playing at being a grown-up,

or some idea of what a grown-up should be.

Had I appeared in that moment – a magic trick

would you have shooed me away in favor

of your blonded, Jewish girl, the one surely

on the other side of the lens and capturing

the look that later, you would give me.

I could never measure up to such stuff.

I know, I know.

I would have covered you

with grass clippings tossed

about your elegant neck down your

open-necked shirt; just a girl

with a schoolgirl crush,

meaning everything to me,

meaning nothing to you.