It faded.
What used to be sky
to a road that binds,
witness to measured steps
towards the coveted.
Time claimed it, like silk
left out to the mercy
of the elements: threadbare
and less a sieve for casual
conversation than the wind
that runs through it,
the past catching.
The repetition mutes
the colors, us sitting
on perpendicular couches,
melted candles on the corner
table and the place in the
dust where the framed wedding
portrait last got moved.
The photographer thought
he’d fix it in Adobe Lightroom,
in a place where monochrome
was fashionable. But he didn’t
have to because everything
arrives in autumn eventually,
sepia tones and gravity.
The sky, silver-lined,
a tarnished chain that
lost most of its charms.
The wrist of fate wearing it,
more what touching remembers
than what the obligation of
permanence understands.

“Lauren and Jack” by photographer Cheyenne Schultz


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