excursion into photography
art by Edward Hopper
confetti you sleep I am dressed I lay Plato aside in order to consider— the light our secret the pictures I took of you way back when my gaze was more acceptable desired even until the day you sat here on the bed and tore them to tiny shreds— confetti for the church steps we’ll never climb
The poem feels like stepping into a moment where love has already slipped away, but its shadow is still warm.
I love how the speaker moves from Plato to the light, as if philosophy suddenly matters less than the memory of what was shared.
There’s a soft ache in remembering a time when being looked at felt welcome, even cherished.
The torn photographs hit hard such a small gesture, but it says everything about what changed.
Calling the shreds “confetti” is heartbreakingly beautiful, turning loss into something almost ceremonial.
The poem captures that strange space where someone is still present in the room but already gone in every other way.
I’m struck by how quiet the lines are, yet how much emotion sits between them.
The contrast between one person sleeping and the other thinking makes the distance feel even wider.
It’s a short piece, but it holds a whole story love, memory, and the moment it all comes undone.
By the last line, you feel the weight of a future that won’t happen, scattered like confetti that will never be thrown.
Sad. Poignant.