Your pictures strung up on your wall, a timeline of improving composition work. Next cropping up in the school paper, your name under them in italics. Your current project lit up on your screen. Your mouse working away, your hand curled loosely over the plastic, your lamp keeping you(more) alert late into the night. Your face grinning behind an expensive camera. A hundred thousand reflections of my face, different times, different angles, expressions, make up. Your grinning face invisible in the shots. Your labor of love evident in the final products, ethereal in their beauty. I hardly recognize myself.
"I still can't capture you," you laugh into my neck. Your hand is holding mine, your arm around my shoulder. "You're too beautiful for my camera." I blush and laugh. You pull me away after a moment, a gentle tug until we're out behind the back of the gallery, until you've pressed me against the wall and swallowed my laughter. And I'd rather have this, have your warmth all over me than whatever the people still inside are looking for. They will see my face in a handful of carefully selected works of art, and you will have me living and breathing and kissing you back for as long as you want me there.(less)
There's this thing with speaking. The words uttered our of your mouth form a picture in your head. You can't see a different image no matter how hard you try. Boat. The beach. Green leaves. I can't think of a donut and say the word zucchini. I bet that's(more) why "they" say you speak reality. That your words become something tangible. Because they're tangible in your mind. (less)