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nicole-wheatPoems
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.
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Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
A Fondness of Vestige.
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.
nicole-wheat
Written by
nicole-wheat
American
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
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