A stranger I was trying to get to know
said he hated taking pictures,
would rather let his memory of the moment fade
and distort itself than be forced to remember how the picture was.
Memory without film may be flawed,
but living in a photograph is lying.
We pause for the flash and the moment changes,
immobile and frozen.
The person I leaned against,
same position, forever,
paled and blurred slightly around the edges
by sunlight over years in the kitchen window sill.
Time wears on and frays itself on picnic table splinters,
and the Polaroid snapshots become outdated.
Hearts breaking and melding,
we are all collages, with the glue still drying us in place,
and these added developments, these changed relationships,
all add to the picture in my mind and color it true.