A photograph album sits somewhere under the bed.
A past girlfriend took the pictures.
I don’t recall clearly, but I’m sure only one or two are of me.
Over years, my memory triggered I think of it.
Perhaps when with a lazy kick I force another object, now unnecessary underneath.
Each time I collapse down onto the carpet, instantly hit by an exhumed dust rushing to greet me.
A white rectangle forms before me,
then a black one imposes itself on top like a Polaroid.
The developing form is slow
First I see the shoes.
One loose lace.
A slight tear near the sole.
Then the frame of a body itself.
A little too thin – skeletal.
An impression of an uncomfortable stance –
left hand gripping right wrist.
A pose that is shudderingly familiar.
Eyes grow out slowest of all – connecting – folding space.
But each time, the more things move into focus – the more the image begins to withdraw.
The strain releases – collapsing until only the white rectangle remains.
Year after year the ritual re-occurs.
The effect slow in its approach, vague in its intentions changes everything.
I’ve heard that human breath can destroy a photograph. The moisture soaked up adoringly by cherished images.
Perhaps I should have looked more often underneath where I slept.
Unknowingly a Chrysalis,
A cocoon of Polyester
There unchanged looking up always face to face
Under forever diminishing returns.