I used to write more about people,
not just people I knew,
but strangers too.
I don’t remember why I stopped.
Somebody has to write about these people.
And if I don’t
maybe they’ll disappear
without even my small small words
to keep them living
in their small small ways.
your hello started something in me
something I never got to finish
I had hoped
we would finish it together
hope is always ill-advised
it is hard to finish a thing
you could never define
scraps and scribbles
memories and notes
all that’s left to work with
blue eyes and heavy tears
blue journals and boutonnieres
blue pills and that
everything blue was always for you.
everything blue still is.
but I think you started something in me
with your goodbye
I think I’ve started changing colors
because I no longer want to be blue.
I desperately want to be the things that I love…
I want to become something worth loving.
I want to be the smell in the air after the rain.
I want to be tired arms and chalked up palms.
I want to be a smile to a bright eyed stranger
and the songs stuck in my head.
I want to be the photographs worth taking
and the art that forces me to close my eyes.
I want to be the trains that pass by
and all the places they’ll ever go and have ever gone.
I want to be the golden Spanish seaside
and all the languages I cannot understand.
I want to be something;
Someone outside of just me.
I used to be afraid of pictures.
the way the lens could capture a moment in time
it captures all of the things:
a mix of both maybe
leaning towards one side over the other.
I haven’t decided which though.
I used to be afraid of how people could judge me
if I was trapped in a photo,
how I would judge myself.
photos are art.
Who am I (who is anyone)
to judge a work of art?