Don’t throw that away.
Don't paint over it, clean it, erase it.
Each mark has a history - a life.
What stories do they share?
Could they share?
I am the hand over the bin.
I am the hand in the bin.
Digging for treasure. Trash.
(My diamond in the rough)
My pig beneath the trough.
Zoom in, zoom out,
breathe in, breathe out,
it's all beautiful to me.
Each mark has a value - immeasurable by monetary worth.
Emotions are thicker than copper.
No Black Wednesdays in the language of love.
Money can’t buy you everything.
(Money can’t buy you love)
Why love that over this?
Why love this over that?
Tit over tat?
Knick over knacks?
I can love it enough for the both of us now.
Love it enough for everyone.
Love it back to life.
Love it beyond life.
Love it again and again and again.
Over and over -
like a self sacrificing mother.
A line away from martyrdom.
A stitch away from sainthood.
Thankless labours but thanks is not what I seek.
I am the person behind the camera,
(hold on, no, a little to the left)
I am the handwriting on the back of the postcard,
(missing you xxx)
or the blurb alongside the photos in the album,
6x4 footnotes because you never know who you might forget.
An invisible, visible presence -
a ghost,
a poltergeist,
glass in the window pain.
Stuck in the past. No.
Chasing the past. No.
Drowning in the indescribable feeling of nostalgia,
draining every last drop of sentimentalism,
intoxicated by the comfort it brings.
My memory was compromised long ago.
Willingly putting on my blindfold,
stepping head first into the fog -
rose tinted sensory deprivation.
All I see is pink.