I wrote this not to long ago. it describes the joy I receive by finding past photographs, a large amount of which, are Polaroids, comment on what you think.
Photographic Lives (An Ode to Found Family Polaroid’s)
Photographs discovered from your old, sunbathed closet, represent past as a lovable thing.
Cases gone, some still remain as a sepia touch causes tears, though I did not exist as did this unknown face.
They fall to the floor, as do the days as I rejoice in seeing your younger self and indulge in asking the renowned question of what your face Is representing.
The human that is laying dead on produced paper, seems to move as I poke the face, smile frown and disappear as does the face from my thoughts.
I place them gently in the box I stole them from, and although all I hear is dead space, I know those pictures will be conversing as the old wooden doors, close, just like another day, in relative time.
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