There was a distinct fondness
I acquired
when I was surrounded with the old,
the crumpled,
antiqued,
coffee-stained photographs;
the way you smiled
every time I picked up the camera
—each frame telling a tale:
the tale of the curvature of your lips,
the forest in your eyes,
the way they helped you look at me
like you do,
the way your mouth formed syllables of my name,
each letter of those words,
the freckles, like constellations,
I connected
at night
in the chaos of the bed sheets.
Each frame told a tale
—initiated a saga—
told me how fond I had become
of how you created passion in me
every time my finger
activated the shutter.