Opposite of Infinite

- 12 -

12 - Photographs

you taught me how to use a camera once;

how to adjust the amount of light assaulting the lens

and how to control

just how quickly the shutter would simply

snap closed,

caging that moment in an infinite, square timeframe

that was far less frivolous than the memory itself.

memories like that time on the roof,

your hand over mine,

steadying as you reminded me that

in times of darkness,

it was better to hold the camera steady

so that the image didn't blur,

but instead cause the captive light to glow.

and it was in that moment that I wished for something

completely impossible

without the security

of those faithless fallen stars.

praying without any form of religion that,

perhaps,

it wouldn't be completely out of the question

to photograph what I felt in my heart.

to come away with a pair of scissors and string,

cutting the organ into the dainty little polaroids

that you strung up on your bedroom wall,

above your bed,

to remember.

because emotions aren't like photographs.

you can't keep their smiles confined

under a sheet of glossy paper.

you can't dictate their aperture

or shutter speed.

and attempting to rule whether or not

the image is in focus

is as hopeless as hoping

when there is no conviction.

and, as my heart gradually loses the will to beat,

I find myself making another impossible wish.

craving for the vitality inside my chest

to not be red.

not only to be an organ

but also soil.

as it used to be.

serving as a place for plants to bloom.

to feel that forgotten feeling

of roots

wrapping themselves around the delicate object

like misplaced veins.

making it somehow beat faster.

harder.

bursting through muscled flesh as flowerbeds erupt

in such beauty and colour

that I almost forget the pain.

a pain so utterly consuming and terrifying

that I almost drown in the shallow waters

of my heart.

tentacles of green

now dominating the expanse of my body.

and I had run from it.

too much. too soon. too young.

suffocating.

a book with too many words on the page

in a print so small

that it was indecipherable.

so snapping the book shut.

like waking up in the morning

and witnessing a blinding light.

so closing my eyes again.

only to realise that there was nothing

but darkness to see.

no words to read.

roots stretching down further into the ground

as my branches desperately coiled out

in hopes of finding yours once more.

but they were gone.

not even the shadows remained.

and, despite my earlier words to you,

I found myself missing those gorgeous patterns

they had cast on the ground.

I was taller now.

just about tall enough to look over the wall

and see you

with petals containing the vibrancy of paint

and curling around another

who was not afraid

of the shade you provided

like an umbrella

shielding someone from the rain.

someone who perhaps understood that darkness

a little better than I.

who understood the importance

for things to grow slowly.

something I had perhaps learnt

a little too late.

but one of your petals remained,

even when I turned away

and the rain came down,

tangled in my branches

despite the harshest weather I came across.