Was for her

I normally don’t take pictures; I used to have about ten or so on my phone’s camera roll on any given day. Mostly random screenshots, one of me and my dog, another of my car when I first bought it.
But for some reason, I love taking pictures of her. I find delight in capturing her off-guard–when she’s in mid-laugh, when she’s looking at something she finds truly beautiful, when she’s looking at me.

That’s my favorite: when she sneaks a glance at me and doesn’t yet know that I’ve noticed, and I get to capture the moment when she realizes I’ve caught her in the act but she still continues to look into my eyes because she doesn’t care that I know she’s in love with me.

Now my memory card is filled with photos of her face. I leave no room on my camera for scenery, because all I see is her. These images are just phantoms of her, to be sure; they don’t quite encapsulate the golden flecks in her eyes, or the sound of her voice when she whispers too loud. But when we’re old, and she’s gone, and the dust has settled on the seat next to mine, these photographs will be enough to bring it all back.

And so I take another picture. Because I absolutely adore her. Because I want her to know that I want her every minute, even if it’s just her likeness in pixels. I take another picture so that, even when she’s not around, when I’m traveling home from work on the train, I will be able to study her, to look at her the way she looks at me when she doesn’t yet know that I’ve noticed


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