A Film

Film. Take One.

The camera takes a shaky picture of my backyard with your blurry face in the frame.
I stash away my memories in boxes and keep them in a drawer next to one of my ribs.

Those memories rise from shitty old films made in ponds and high grass. I think we left our dreams about hairspray and metaphorical foxes in there. I think about looking for them, yet I am sure neither of us will.

The shots are crooked and amateur, like unsent postcards drawn from memory. I hold them in my palms like water from the river. By the time, my hands reach my lips – the water is gone.
The film feels like riding a bike.

I feel like a child again, not knowing where these bruises come from. They just appear, melting into my skin like watercolors into paper. Time is a painter, apparently, blunt in imagery, yet snobbish in meaning.
Reality is a blurry painting. Reality is an amateur film.

We never finished it. The Film. We never finished it. It just melted away into hairspray and metaphorical foxes, like Time’s watercolors in the grand scheme of things. I hear birds in the trees and I feel the light breeze on my face.

I remember the frame, in the palms of my hands, yet I swear that it does not exist.
Like a fox and the moving of trees, which you blink and you foolishly miss.
They dissolve into days, into blurry old pictures, into bluntness of time-twisted lines.
You’re not looking for them, but they find you instead, and they feel just like riding a bike.