Hotel Valencia

I used to think that if I could go back in time
I’d meet you at the Hotel Valencia,
when you were in love with me
and I was in love with you
and we had that funny view –
below our balcony.
Views like a movie set, 
a modern suburban country western,
alerting my mind
not for the first or last time
that we might just be a fantasy
only as real
as our reel-to-reel counterparts
waiting for one of us to say 

Cut.

Only we kept going,
because we didn’t know
which one of us was the director
and which of us the star. 

If I had the power to move through time?

I’d just keep floating forward
closer to the certainty
that there was no movie at all.
And that we,
we were just extras.
Lost
on an abandoned set.