By Megan HopkinColours bloom in the darkroom,
Painting faces on yesterdays
With the deftness of the virtuoso.
Each captured moment a tableau:
A monument to the days that were.
Once perfect fluidity, made marble,
Fit gently in the palm of his hand;
Illustrating his tapestry woven
From trips around the sun
And strangers exchanging once nervous hellos.
The walls drenched in claret fill his wine glass
Yet intoxication won’t bring her back to him.
Lenses capture smiles
Not stolen kisses or I love you’s,
Twinkling eyes or reluctant goodbyes.
He remembers her
Fingerprints on photographs
Which had once seemed imperfect:
Now he frames them.