Like a good poet,
I dust off the metaphors on my lonely shelf.
I unearth phrases like ‘hurricane heart’,
and my cherry blossoms come untangled
from the knots in my hair;
I add in a shot of whiskey (maybe 4).
These metaphors are losing
their color. I hunger for new words
to describe the way I miss you.
The distance between the sun and the moon
is overused. I don’t want to compare you
to a storm anymore, and don’t even get me
started on space and stardust.
I want to talk about your anatomy;
I need something tangible to grasp at,
instead of straws made of rain-
I want to try and describe
what it is like to feel your fingers
brush against mine while we huddle
on porches of college students and
pretend like we’re not drunk; pretend
like we don’t want to curl up
inside one another.
I’ll let you know when I find the right words.
Maybe then, I will be able to describe
how it feels to still be in love with someone
that I walked away from.
This, apparently. Now I wish I could say “Hurricane Sandy developed this guy’s film,” or some such punched-up header, but as whimsically dream-like as these images are, that likely isn’t the case. Their seemingly random development patterns could have been the result of floodwaters oxidixing the Kodachrome (or whatever brand equivalent) prints, true. But that’d be a stretch–the chances of water alone developing “any silver-based film, especially color film, and especially especially slide color film,” Reddit user brie-otch writes, are pretty slim. More likely the photos were already developed, leaving Sandy’s waters to warp the photos into gauzy, water-colored vestiges of their former selves.