The Living Camera

Indeed,
capturing is a most delicate art.
One’s lenses must study the muse intimately,
the shutter of the lids flickering accordingly,
in rhythm with the ebbs and flows of the study at hand.
Scouring the outline of the artwork,
with a focus that burns the edges of vision:

On me rests a living camera,
which lies unwavered and unblinking at the sight of thy person.
It was unknown to me
that such an untameable beast
as that which sits on my face
could possess the function of stillness—
a feature it is often incapable of harnessing,
except when it gazes upon thy face.

How frustrating it is
that this living thing
resists all my control—
rejecting every ounce of propriety
to linger on the crevices of thy face,
and soak in every inch of thy being,
even as I attempt to direct its focus elsewhere.

Yet I cannot deny the splendour of such a device,
whose physical evidence lies only in the walls of my head,
preserved in the form of a memory card,
waltzing in the lanes of reflection.
There when I seek it—
yet perhaps not always—
inserting itself in the forefront of my mind,
even when I do not.

So that my memory of thee
cements itself in my mind,
enduring,
even if in flickers of light.

More reason to cherish all that it may capture,
and appreciate the experience of existing
in the presence of its muse.
More reason to gaze upon thee,
with the camera that lives on…
for as long as I.

Infinite in memoria.