Tuesday, March 29, 2011

superstition

I saw him, again, and again, I took no pictures.

It's not like part of me wasn't wanting to take a picture or two; friendly reminder five years from now of that perfect almost-summer day we had in the park, warm breeze blowing, sun warming our kisses. I had my camera at hand's length away, in my purse, purged of all its pictures, ready to add in some new memories, but I left it reposing in the bottom of my bag; I never even touched it or made mention of it.

When you pulled out your phone to take a picture of the view--some things never change, thankfully--I remembered my camera, hidden from sight, but I did not grab it. Did not make move toward my bag at all. Instead I sat atop the lime green comforter, my legs tucked beneath me, waiting for you to join me.

Again, I can't shake the fact that there is something I have come not to like about pictures and lovers. Superstition, you could say, but there's something so finite in the posing for a picture with a lover who is not really yours. Feels like I'm tempting the gods who preside over love--may sound crazy, but the first time my lovers and pictures coincided, he left and never came back. Old fears are hard to break.

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