With a man, a city, an eraOf your life in which everything was filteredThrough wine and sunlightAnd obfuscated with ivy? In which everything,Rosied, perhaps, by retrospect,Seemed like celluloid transposedOnto your memory? Are you in love with who you were then? Did she seem brighter?Did she smile wider through lens flares?Is that the only way you can access her now?She may as well have ceased ...