White curtains, early morning light starting to stream through. A section of the wall was all windows. French. One of them was ajar. The curtain moved when a light breeze found its way into the room. She slides off the bed...rumpled sheets.. she turns towards the soft light and begin to bunch up her hair, tying it into a bun.. she turns sideways and looks back at me, her lips curling to an impish grin. I reach out for my camera and snap away. It was perfect. The lighting, the pose.. and... I wake up.
But she had smiled. Thats a first, she smiled. I remember the face. Eyes without a face .. a face without a name.. As the day progresses, identities take shape and the smoke spires dissipates.. she fades, the curtains are drawn open.. beds are made. coffee cup rings on counter top, lipstick on the shirt collar, unfnished letter..reminders, traces.. empty picture frames and memories that remain unmade...
This post reminded me of a poem I once started writing. Never finished it ofcourse, back there was a steady flow of thought and words. Thought I should share an excerpt from it.
Swirling dust, trapped in light
peers through shutters,prying eyes.
streaks the floor..the wall..
phantom frames..no longer grace,
smiling faces behind glass plates.
Flower-pots stacked..the flowers long gone
broken cups and hearts. muted phones veiled in dust..
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