Polaroid

I've been looking so long at these pictures of you
That I almost believe that they're real 
I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures 
Are all I can feel--The Cure

The capture...how a moment can linger long after it happened.  The moment imprisoned.  A memory stamp.  The beauty of a picture is it is forever embedded...timeless.  But what it doesn't capture is what isn't seen.  The surroundings, the proximity of something just outside the frame.  The rest of the room.  The color of the sky nearby.  It is a time-box, a jewelry box, a container.  The picture is just that...a rendering.  It may not describe the mood but it may capture one.  It may not detect a temperature but it will convey one.

What happens when the beauty in person is so much better than the picture?  The picture becomes the second prize award...it is bittersweet.  The in-person is so glaringly better...so infinitely better.  But that goes away in a goodbye.  It disappears in a walk away.

Save me a picture.  Keep me a moment.  Give me a second.

The closed-eye kiss.  There is no visual...rather it is just a presence.  A pressure.  The mouth finds the terrain and maneuvers.  If lucky, if goddamn lucky it aligns, finds urgency, emotion...detection.  Solace.  Unimaginable visuals playing in the mind's eye.  Nothing could paint it, nothing could capture.

No pictures.  

But memories.  

Visceral, tongue-bit memories.

Yet somehow a picture can remind.

Can rewind.

Can put back in place a moment.  

Restore.

Return.

A picture can spark a memory like flint in a lighter.  A brief spark.  A slight flame.

It can burn.

It can burn.

A picture can burn and when we close our eyes we can still see it.

It can burn.