This is a picture I did not take of us, overwhelming September, I’m explaining to you that every time a leaf falls, someone must be daydreaming of you.

This is a picture I did not take of me, packing my bags for the 21st time in 12 months, and you, hanging with your heart online to ask me to come home.

This is a picture I did not take of you and me, kissing in your car, in the rain, you texting me the same night you almost got in a crash because you were so confused about it.

This is a picture I did not take of you, sighing tenderly as you say I don’t know if I should get in a relationship right now, me, laughing nervously to hide my emotions as they choke me – It’s fine, I wasn’t gonna date you anyway. 

This is a picture I did not take of my dress, flooding the late summer air and the streets with heavily saturated purple pastels, walking next to you in what will be remembered our first and last official date.  

This is a picture I did not take of our three months of letters and emails, when you told me:

“You are
Well, have better said
What Sylvia Plath missed
The power to ellaborate the perfection of bittersweetness.
Kills you and makes your heart skip a beat”

This is a picture I did not take of us, my mascara bleeding in the parking lot, like a statue of grief, your steps moving forward in atonement.

This is a picture I did not take of us, standing on the edge between shouting and crying, between laughter and disaster, empty heartbeats in a hurricane.

This is a picture I did not take of you and me, fighting the last world war in our little room at 3rd floor.

This is a picture I did not take of you moving back to New York, and me watching Tomasz Wasilewski’s United States Of Love, 7 years later in an obscure cinema at TIFF, and finally crying over your departure.

For all the merry pictures I’ve taken, see Facebook.