A Song for Good Romain and the Leaves of His Notebook

In the name of Romain Gary, or of one of his pseudonyms.

How did you move in with me?
With your sweet silliness.
With the charm in your movements
once you got out of bed.

We are still strolling along the receded beaches of Rio.
Far from your last binge and from my last
pistol shot.
In the middle of the sand that enchants us.

And gazing at the romantic screenplay
of our years together.

But I have to leave you in this frame.
My writing desk is swollen with blank sheets.
My study is suspiciously not jealous of you.
(Should that have reminded me that my longing for a perfect relationship
is my illusion, but everyone's too? That I lie to myself perfectly consciously,
that I need every one of my lies, because they are a thousand times truer
than the real, rational droplets of oil on the muzzle of your empty bottle
and than the words with which the throat of the dry revolver describes you.

Damned study-I. And damned desk-I. I don't want to be words-I.
I want to be film-I.
Ha, so what? I'll run away uncertainly and come back guiltily to myself-I. No way out. No escape. Only escape-I. That's no use to me.

Let's pose again. This photo from Rio will look good in a rectangular frame.
Where are you?