Because I’ve seen the way a body looks preserved, I turned away from you. That’s the most that I could do. Distance, dear, makes the heart grow weary. The scene where I’m your citizen, but am touching myself inside a stranger’s apartment as, in Yemen, an American drone kills 14 at a wedding, mistakenly. Mistakenly, I chose the hydrangea, whose large pink blush has been said to match the size of a sender’s heart. When not pruned properly, the flowers sag, begin to break. Once, you fed me heart on a skewer. After, I read the animal would be inside me forever, idea that made me sick for days. Now, my autoerotic display, while, in Yemen, vehicles still are smoking. Distance makes easy unmanning the hands. I hasten to compare the scene where I’m such a terror in that dress, where the flowers are all a mess, and I’m gussied up. I’m turned on by men I’ve never met. What a wedding photographer, as anyone poses candid for the drone. But, no, I’m only posing …