Your shoulders resemble velvet, nostalgic Sluagh.

Her shoulders draw me in, a velvet bleed, I simply want to to u ch them, to run my fingers over (and over) them, to see if they are as soft as they look. I wonder why I am drawn to you, again and again (and again), if it is the novice admiration of a first photo taken on 35mm or something else? Nostalgia overlooking composition, under-exposure and dark-room bleeding?

Your blonde hair looks black, brunette, here. Did my lens transform you so fully?

Shoulders, naked, your smooth (un-freckled, I remember she had freckles) seems to be caught in a heart-shaped frame. Maybe she stood this way on purpose; the light only touches you slightly, after all.

Why do I drift towards you?

You are plain, off-centre, under-exposed and the premature wobbles of an obsession with capturing people.

 Did you know, when you developed in under the gaze of two, that you would be so belligerent in insistence to remain with me?

I tried to find the original, to see if I retained a copy that would let me finally filch that touch of her shoulders, of your s k i n. You and her separated with the guillotine veiled as a shutter (perhaps it is true, that a camera can capture, split, your soul).

I am drawn to you, as much as I am
rep e lled by her.

Let me touch your shoulders, and see if they resemble the velvet I remember.

April 29th 2021

© James Sunderland