In an old...
wallet
box
attic
was an old faded photograph of a photographer.
Meant to be...
left alone
put to rest
forgotten
it was since then brought back by nostalgia and the impossible life that was now to be lived without you.
You liked to be...
behind
smiling through
holding the camera
as you were the photographer but not this time, as you were the photographed...
In front of
smiling at
holding a pose
while I became the photographer, photographing you, the freshly captured photographer in the faded photograph.
In an old...
dream
heart
memory
you never faded but remained the still whole of a perfect silhouette.
The perfect photographer preserved in the perfectly faded photograph for...
love
life
forever.

Never trust a photograph;
That smile is nothing but posed;
Those eyes hide much pain and tears;
One cannot see behind closed
Doors and for the many years
Of life beyond that sly face
Is the soul that fell from grace.

with a Polaroid camera
I captured you
I captured us
made us tangible
made you mine
face to face
skin to skin
rough hands
bringing me back to life
I've been cold for so long
A touch and a tremble
Ignites new flames
Consumes me
Soft sounds
Perfect chemistry
Unfamiliar devotion
Belonged to no one
Belongs to you now

There is something so dangerously evocative about photographs.
You would press your palm, tickle with your fingertips just to try to find the way the water would have felt.

Your lungs would gasp for a little more air, just to imagine the crispness of it in some other place. Places you promised yourself that you would go.

It's magic to say the least.

For whatever is in the borders of the photograph, they are still alive, somewhere.

This angular house
is flooded with silence and solitude
the blue of his sad face
is a photograph
hidden in the darkness,
whether 'tis love
in my dreamless sleep
or 'tis suffering in my sleepless dream...

Do you remember the day we bought our beers, packed our bags and made our own party on the hill beside our building? It was just you and me and the sun. We were celebrating the first warm day of spring, but you still insisted on stouts, and they quickly lost their cool in the sunlight but I didn't mind. I brought my camera and photographed the wind curling through that blue and green sundress you loved, and you danced as if you were a leaf in autumn.

Until you spilled your beer, to which I reacted only with regrettable anger. You stopped dancing.

That lead us inside, away from the sunlight, to end the memory. You never wore that sundress again, and didn't enjoy those stouts the same way. We never celebrated another change of season, and I never again photographed you in the wind.

another day has passed,
and i still have your photograph.

its beginning to become soft, even though its made from card stock.

its been 9 weeks.
i still miss who i knew.
now you are a stranger, and it rips my soul that if i passed you,
i'd have no idea what to say.