pale spindly fingers tracing the sharp sharp edges of
a cold contemporary coal colored picture frame
with the words "live, love, die"
inscribed on the bottom with dying gold letters

staring at the photo trapped within in the frame
trapped within that split second of time; frozen forever
until the picture fades,
becoming a distant memory of what once was

a single face peers up from within the confines of ink and paper
a large toothy grin,
long hair blowing freely in the air,
eyes unfocused,
flying into the air on makeshift wings;
she's on a swing,
getting high(er and higher)

"who's this?" i ask

he turns to me, his eyes still blank,
while he draws on the paper roll of death between his lips
he breathes out like a procedure,
and i resist the urge to cough, choke on the black air

"she's no one." he says,
boredom dripping into the cavities of what i call: his eyes

but i insist she is someone, she must exist
there are hundreds of photographs in his room,
but not a single photo of him
my eyes land on the sleek black camera on his desk;
the camera is his beloved

"why aren't there any pictures of you?
(i've never seen you printed on paper and
i'm beginning to believe that
you
aren't
real)"

"i'm a photographer;
i just take photographs
(i cage people in surreal memories)"
he's smoking another one;
he's measuring out what's left of his life in units of cigarettes

he inserts a grin as if to say,
"but i for one, refuse to be captured
(because people in photographs are lies)"