They are living life at different speeds. One too fast, in circles and loops and ups and downs and round-and-round carousels. One in puddles and tangled rain reflections, pauses and stillframes and flashes.
"Your hands smell like developer. Don't you know it's bad for you?"
"What isn't?" She smirks. My love, she wants to add.
A body in orbit, double-spins. And a shooting star, snap-crackle-pop. Magnetic hands, polar voices.
"You're spending too much time in there."
"There are no shadows in the darkroom. No shadows stretching bluer and bluer and bluer."
Just waiting for the collision.
"You always said you see in black and white."
"Until you. You appeared in technicolor. I don't see in color—I feel in color."
Bang. Relentless beat of a frantic paradise, psychotically quixotic. Glassy laughs together, and stenciled adventures. Glowstick smears on jeans and sharpies on shoes, hot candy kisses wrapped in crinkled tinfoil and bottled rattling in capped canisters.
"I can't be your exception. You're blinded by parallax."
"And we're both blinded by Venus." My love, she wants to add.
Light bends around them, molds, folds, pulses and bounces and pours into cupped hands. They roll together, they unwind. They spin and flash, incite the wrath of gravity and the smiles of time. Color shatters. Spectrums coalesce at the corners, and evanesce at dusk.
She smiles like sunshine and rain all stirred up together and spread in an arc across a blue lens. "Shooting stars are bright while they last."
She becomes a shadow.
And she keeps spinning and looping and falling and pouring through life. But she looks into puddles when she pauses and she whispers, "My love. My love. My love."
A/N: One-shot. Yes, it's two girls, one a photographer and the other something faster. I think I'm allergic to happy endings, because I never write them.
Fixed the tenses issue. Now it makes more sense and is simultaneously more confusing because we've lost all sense of time. Good luck understanding it.
Good luck understanding it.