siinli Dec 2018
I burned our
old photographs,
it fell down
like dried leaves
in the autumn
The classic
gallery of our
love that was
once fascinating
became a
tedious one
The once white
walls and
clean corners
Are now dusty
and dark
The perfectly
carved frames,
and perfect
became dull
and lifeless
You left me
knowing that
I won't survive
alone inside this
***** walls
Picture me
in your mind
And you'll see
the saddest photo
there will ever be
Hanna Alayne Oct 2018
My recollections of the past
have merely become faded photographs

Birthday parties with pink balloons
funerals held in a floral print room

boxes upon boxes of forgotten times
now resurrected, consuming my mind

would these memories exist if not seen in print?
would my mind conjure up something different?

Would I look at this life through a lens of curved glass
if not for the help of a photograph
Take pictures people. You'll want the memories later.
Thunderous Weeds Aug 2018
People once friends and friends once strangers
framed in an honest landscape
eyes that squint in the trice of sun.
the splendour of their ambrosia

glaring and obvious, yet never enough.
a nostalgia borne from this beam
and an ephemeron that we cannot know
will one day seem distantly close.

bygone beloved, and in this moment even more,
the nature of the honey bee has changed for everyone
and is sweet in different circumstance

smiles are gifts  and laughs are frozen
frost that although altered seems the same.

nature appears eternally stuck
doused in today’s nectar,
as if it was always the same
the years just fly by and seem like one on brief reflection. its hard to realise that everything is far more changed than i think, but it is.
Blade Maiden Aug 2018
Washed up on the shore
of the oceans, your waters inside
I left an armada of paper boats
folded from all the letters I wrote to you
In my mind, in my mind
For you to never find
For my pride to unwind
For love to be kind

I flew across a mountain high
The edges of your mind
And shed the feathers from my sacrificial bird
in hopes you'd make a pillow to rest your head
On my thigh, on my thigh
For you to be nigh
For my lips to gift you a relieved sigh
For love to get by

I sat underneath the tallest tree
the growth of me and you
and tried to capture the play of light and shadow on photographs
in an attempt to keep all memories safe for your return
To my side, to my side
For you to let your insecurities hide
For my arms to be open wide
For love to abide
Lyn Jul 2018
Here’s the irony: even if I dearly miss you, it is because of you that I’m not afraid of what the future brings. You give me strength to believe that it is still possible to move forward and whenever I see the sunset, it will remind me of your smile and when I feel the wind, it will remind me of your embrace. This is not a goodbye, but a thank you. Thank you for loving me, and for receiving my love in return. And thank you for the photographs and memories I will cherish forever. You are the very best part of me and my life is better for it. It’s your turn now to wait for me. Wait for me, okay? Because there will come a day where it is going to be my turn to come back home to you.

I love you.
Shang May 2018
In that album, our memories are kept,
Smiling, laughing, having fun.

It belongs to everyone— to you,
me, and the others.

They’re meant to be treasured
meant to be kept—protected,

because in those photographs,
our memories are forever timeless.
Sam Feb 2018
Stems of light, apprehended,
comprised in a frame 
of fuzzy, speckled imagery.
Memories etched, staining time
along spectrums once focused 
with refined precision.
Apparitions of past fragments,
transcend; condensed on fabric
weaved through the eye of a lens.
A poem about the moment a photograph is taken.
sarah Jan 2018
bits of nostalgia you can fit in your pocket,
full of stories and adventures.
rivers where emotions lie,
giving these snapshots meanings.
Rohan Press Jan 2018
while the holocene climaxes
through empty, breezing streets (seeing
your leaves and flowers wither and curl on the two-edged
backlane, loose gravel and overhanging apartments looming
like sharp needlepoints of darker grey)
drops, just streams, coalesce on dark green leaves,
dirt scatters on the phosphorescent, forgotten film—imperceptibly,
rain blurs your lonely photographs (i hold

them in boxes and under books, and
gaze at scrawls where your hand once touched, and
ponder at surfaces where your mind once wandered, and
shadow them on my heart, and
shatter them on my memories).
May be some day..

The case in my storage fell on my head..when I was hysterically hitting my hands for the lost confirmations of adulthood..
The mother of coincidences and fate was up today..

The box contained all the pictures of my childhood.. which today are on Facebook, and the timely flashes of memories that don’t mean as much, pokes a hole in my heart..

The time where careless was adored and playful and silly was the only way to be.. running behind my little chickens and teasing my parrot for a chilli was the sport that kept me fit..sad that sport today means watching matches at the stadium or late night football leagues..

The exercise that we got when mother ran left and right only to put that bite in our hunger hole.. how so luxurious has that bite of mother’s love become..

When Hotwheels and Funschool and Playdough was the hip of the hour.. when did an iPhone replace it all ?
Popcorns and Rasna, and Uncle Chips and  lime juice were the menu desired.. no one told me Rasna becomes *** and coke and uncle chips becomes Pizza and Fries.. or lime juice would turn into a Mojito, flustered..

May be cotton candy will never be ‘buddhi ka baal’ again..and nutties and gems and boomer bubble gum are left just words..

Balloons outside the park were the reason we went to weddings..who knew weddings will be the misnomer for departing swing sets and see-saws are just equations of physics and childish banter..

When the only cricket teams were the kids in the colony, and we hadn’t to worry about India, Australia and South Africa..
When gangs rode cycles and ate Eclairs for evening snacks.. how has it become bikes and cars and kebabs with whiskey over the years..
When getting hurt in the knees was a sign of heart breaks have become a taboo of the weak..

Times when fever was a festival of cold packs and mother’s kisses on the forehead and stomach aches were the cheat codes for skipping school.
How even diarrhoea and fractures don’t get us off work..

Chilling meant Cartoon Network.. parties meant cakes and presents in the house..and birthday songs still meant like Grammy nominated jingles of happiness and satisfaction..

Sitting on the floor with a tiny tear and a wrinkle of a smile on my face, I get spotted by my mother. She’s curious to know, how her ever frantic and running child came to a halt.. and the time turned tides, it was 5th grade again, when I shared with my mother all the happenings and happiness and sorrows.. and insecurities meant bullies and not bosses anymore..

Like my wish of ‘may be some day, all over again’.., mommy picks her mess of a child up, hugs me tight with a kiss full of affection on my forehead..
May be someday, again this box will fall into my hands, and Luck will play its tricks to muster a kiss from my mother..
May be some day..
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