Decided to write a piece inspired by a series of images from the pocket autopsy collab. Maybe someone could read this? I wanted to keep it gender ambigious (perhaps just about getting away with the Bob Dylan ref.) so boys and girl voices welcome! :) Then p'raps it could be a simple video?
It’s easy to look back now, at the slideshow of our love and see patterns in the pictures. I remember you in fragments, in facts and in fictions.
I can never think of you objectively, but I sometimes I think of you in objects. Lost things and lingering things. Memories in pictures.
And when I think of you I think of –
Rolls of film still waiting to be developed. Inside, we’re trapped, sealed forever in past bliss like Keats’ eternal lovers.
I think of the keys to your house that I still have in a drawer somewhere. I wonder what you’d say if I walked through the front door as if nothing had happened…
I think of your harmonica phase. You weren’t very good but back then I thought you were just like Bob Dylan. I guess that made me Joan Baez…
You hated my notebook. It unnerved you how I took it everywhere. You wanted to know every word but I wouldn’t, couldn’t let you see. You were relegated to the fringes.
I remember our night-time trip to the sea. We wanted to feel spontaneous. Instinctively, I gathered shells as souvenirs to mark our victory over routine.
I remember when you lost my lucky lighter. Not wanting to admit it, you replaced it. You thought I never noticed.
When I think of you I think of my bad habits – the ones you wanted me to kick. But I clung to them as if to quit would mean defeat.
But we are best described in ticket stubs. Those clichéd cardboard love trinkets, so often resigned to the tin boxes of lost loves.
I think of you in a history of lost objects.
I don’t think of you that often.