Saturday, May 21, 2005
: Negatives
He picked up his notebook by the spine and flipped it open to a blank page. His pen snapped open in his fingers and he began to scribble furiously, pennign down his thoughts as she sat in front of him, vacantly watching, with one hand on a thin stack of monochrome photographs. She had pushed them to one side, and now, realising that he was not about to pay any attention to her, picked them up and studied them again. How time had passed since these photographs were taken! They appeared so much older now, so much more weary and weathered. The carefree days of our youth carry the most consequence, and one bears witness to this in the lines that form upon one's brow. She closed her eyes and thought of nothing but the texture of the photographs.
He wrote:
The touch of cotton on you is flawed but feminine
Slivers of sunlight cut through the doorway
The sharp angles of the room invite us in
The departing scent of flowers ensures our stay
A neat stack of memories sits discarded here
Carefully positioned, close but not near
Too dear to forget, too daring to forgive
Photographs without which we cannot live
Through the tender fabric I feel your skin
Alive, aware and beautiful within
And in that moment of tender clarity
The light of the room can be seen
Revealing your face and its solemnity
All the while, she pretended not to notice the tears welling up in his eyes, as if he was playing the part of an artist or a comedian and that this was an expected part of such an act. He would soon shed this infirm exterior and slip into the cool cover of ambivalence that she had grown accustomed to, she thought. He sobbed softly, resting his head and hands on the tabletop, and not until she pushed his hand aside and retrieved the notebook to read its contents did she understand the terrible depths of his sorrow.
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