Photograph

Why? Why do you photograph me? Long lens, stolen moments, as if I was the subject under study, as if you needed to capture me, and forever I was yours? Under your lens, under your observation, a collection, be lumped into your photographs of exes, women you were once involved with? 

I don’t want to be there, living only in your memories, I want to become part of you, a history, a reminder, of that history we shared, a path we embarked on, I want to know that I meant something, I existed, I imprinted on you, so the next woman you would meet, you would want to be with, you would be drawn to, reminded you of me. The scent, the breath, the touch, the way my body curved, the glance I stole, the way I looked at you, the way you tasted, I tasted, I want that, in addition to the images you captured, to be in your well, in your collection. 

So the next woman you’d be drawn to, was an iteration of me.

You said, “Perhaps I do have a fetish, you have that effect on men. I bet you do.”

I didn’t say a word, I was on my my side, I simply looked at you, my eyes locking yours. 

I knew that you knew, I had you, at that moment, time stopped. I was captured in your green irises. 

I knew, I was in your photograph, now and forever.