They tell me to use my head.
I should've used my heart.
We sit in cars, in rowdy living rooms, and weave our stories like awkward webs, and laugh, giggle at the stupidity of it, at the fumbling mistakes and successes.
I invariably get a sick, secret ache for your face and your awkward confidence and the way you drew me in like one magnet to another. I hold this ache close like a dirty secret, like clutching a freshly broken arm close to the body, to protect it from those small bumps, the brushes that set your teeth grinding.
But I also remember the bullshit. And then the shrouds I've woven around you, that blur your form, that stretch it and mold it, they fray and dissolve, and I can see you as you are. So I do my best to banish that bitter ache.
And if a little shred of it remains, like dust in the corners, who could blame me if I pretended not to see it?
This shoot was so. windy. The one in the comments that's tipped is that way because my tripod blew over mid-photo. Gah.
My camera was okay though, thankfully, and I managed to weight it down with my camera bag and take a few more pictures before I got too cold.
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