'Remember the day that we met in the park
Where the sunlight and shadow entwined?
That picture looked perfect, more perfect than art.'
I remember walking up the stairway to go to my fridge - it was snowing especially then, more snow than London had seen in years. So, I had got myself a bottle of cognac (for the chilling bite of the winter - I told myself) and gave her a call. We spoke of irrelevant things, and suddenly, about photographs.
'We took a lot of pictures of the snow,' she said. 'You know,' it hit her, 'we don't have a single picture together. A SINGLE picture. That's so sad.'
'It's better that way,' I told her. 'It's in our...'
'I know, I know, it's in our minds - blah, blah,' she cut me short. 'But I still want a picture together.'
As I swirled the cognac that I had already poured a moment before in my glass, plopping unto the sofa beside me, I took a long look at the snow pouring outside and smiled to myself.
'Pictures, are for those who forget.'
'What?' She said.
'Nothing at all.' The cognac was warm.
Now, as I sit on that very sofa again with another drink, after more than half a year, after leaving her, I think, perhaps it is better that we have no pictures together, and that, I cannot say:
'I used to smile every time that my eyes,
found the pictures of both of us framed on the wall,
Now, they’re pictures of nothing at all.'
Because, what are photographs but some odd shapes on some glossy paper that resembled the people you loved, the places you've been to, and the things you've lost? A concoction of all that once was, and is now no more.