Pathetic Fallacy at the Cinema

It isn’t like in the movie where seabirds arc perfectly
higher and higher
and the beautiful actor with the rich baritone voice is carried
motionless from the surf:
his muscles rippled like the Pietà;
his drenched shirt a lullaby against his skin.
There is no omniscient narrator toasting another birthday.
There never is another birthday,
never a measurable way to hold the ruined sands of our hearts.
There is only a phone
screaming
in the dark of the morning

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