I carry a camera, but the question is does she still call me aperture

it’s, a canon

shiny, clear black,

nice

i bought it new

when she said to

after dry heaving

on the price tag,

it seemed selfish, then

it was selfish now

because between the two of us

we already had four

and she knew so

hers were brown

mine green

and not a person in the world

had ever owned one, or two,

or three,

years

we carried them, to ledges

beside railroad track

to red boots, alaska and back

to lighthouse hammock, augustine

over a stone wall,

up a water,

passed my fear,

fall.

(when all else blurred

she called me aperture

when she smiles

i call her beautiful)

we developed so many pictures

facebook couldn’t handle us

twitter had no place for us

she was my status

is my status

she will be

tomorrow

when i wake

i’ll drink coffee

in my left hand.

and right hand,

holding newness,

rub my eyes,

through a glass lens, and

always catch the suns

glare. (hear me clear).

if buying a camera

sounds good to your ears (you've got four already),

save your money,

don’t finish grading

keep your day job,

and leave.

buy her ice-cream

cone,

walk the boardwalk,

sit on stairs,

walk more.

but love her,

lover

love her

like waves do shore,

like i do,

and when the old man asks,

if you are lovers,

say always.

I took a picture,

wednesday morning, at 4 am

beneath my throat

where my soul sits

midway from my stomach

and sent it in an email

i’m positive it was everything,

and blurry