Just a memory, sweeping through me. Something incomplete. Burning under my eyes as I write. Theres a lightness in my feet, a hole forming where my throat should be.
Simple little things, tinted with sunset colors. That white frame signifies its age. Theyre all of things I havent seen before
yet I have. Somewhere in that missing part of me. Its only then that I realize that something is gone, or maybe never there.
Its not like I was there for it, anyway. Thats when you know how much heart they hold. How important they are
photos have never moved me, you know. I tend to find them boring. But these little thumbnails, not tangible, choke me with their soul. Maybe Ive found
An unknown part of myself in shower drains and blurry head shots. A memory of that camera, those ancient portraits of parents and grandfathers. It was pink with multicolored flowers, new really. The film was old and corrupted, and always ruined the picture somehow. The ink wouldnt develop fully.
But I loved watching the colors move and fade into a bookmarked reality. I loved knowing that hed touched them, what felt like eons ago. But it wasnt photos of things I know, not now. It was the memory that Id taken them; that theyd been brought back. Random faces, with captions written neatly on the bottom. I see my sloppy cursive ghosted over them. A memory of years I had and didnt have and are gone, now.
This is what sadness is made of.