Waking Up


There are canisters of film

laying around my cluttered room
Covered in dust

and left there to fade.
For a moment
That fragile second
captured between a lens
and a sharp piece of glass
is torn by the actual memory.

A breeze brushes my arm

with the frigid breath of familiarity

slowly stretching until my entire being

is freezing.

The cold is foreign to this pale skin

Not because it’s never touched it

but because the memory of it

is different than what it once was.

It was a memory

of that old place that we never

wanted to go.

Standing, like the thought

crossed your mind once.


And the flash went off.

Eye lids that had never closed

seemed like they were beginning

to open.

The night threw its first punch

and the memory was gone,

fading slowly onto a negative

that would never be developed
once the act was complete


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