without me
a room filled with
memories engraved
in flowers and bottles
roots emerging
entangling what is left
in repressions that erupt
only when provoked
I walked into a room filled with memories of what was. You are now gone, and I am without you. Your scent lingers for eternity and the flowers still turn to where you always sat and wrote your poetry - almost like sunflowers only turn to the sun when her rays touch their soft petals.
Now, the memories are baked onto the walls, and I find myself talking to them as if they can divulge their secrets. How did they encounter our confrontations? Or loving embraces? Through the eyes of these walls, what did we look like?
I always joked that I picked you like a wildflower. Now, the room is empty besides the thousands of flowers I picked, dipped in water, growing their roots in suspension. Rootless groundless memories that float in their own solution - everything reminding me of you.
The light casts a strange, forlorn, and unhappy shadow; I burn to find you between the walls, the chairs, and the countless flowers that stand in front of me.
The powerful tinctures and concoctions you left behind cannot drug me any longer, for their effects have worn off, and I am not without you. The memories seem to peel from the walls, yet I cannot come to it to scrape them clean.
I stumbled upon the room without you, the flowers still fresh, yet they seem to long for you as well; their only reminder is the empty chair that occupies the space you always sat in and wrote. Your words are long gone, like your presence.
Can I still recall the poems that you wrote with your fingertips over my body? Can you still retrace the movements of our love that painted the walls with the most beautiful of colours? Can you still pick the flowers that I grew in your heart?
Now, you are without me, and I am without you. The chair is empty, and all that I have is a room full of flowers, turned toward the chair where you always sat writing your poems.
This was a series of photographs that I took in a small room decorated with flowers - probably a room where they made bouquets. I could not help myself so I took some photographs. My fiance told me after a minute or two that the people did not like me taking photographs... Like so many places these days, they do not like the sight of the camera.
It was a rainy day outside, and we ran from shop to shop. This was such a beautiful place, and I could not let it go un-photographed. It felt like the poem wrote itself; it felt like the scene wrote itself into a sad story - the one I wrote above.
I hope that you enjoyed these musings and writings along with the photographs.
For now, happy photographing and keep well.
All of the photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and Nikkor 50mm lens. The musings and writings are my own, albeit inspired by the photographs of this very beautiful but sad room.