He envisioned the world in multiples of 4×6. Every moment, every image, captured. His memory, scrawled throughout photographs. His heart, as red as a dark room.
The path carved of destruction and damnation held him tight. God watched him fall. I watched him wither. She stood by hope. A November resurrection.
She was beautiful and cruel, tattered and resilient.
And in its mourning the soil, the pavement, the dying grass was drenched with its prayers for mercy. If god exists, I saw him in the rain.
She died from a routine. It could have been you.
As an architect of beauty, with limbs outstretched, she was dangerous.
It was something in the curve of his glasses and his tendency of being made uncomfortable that told me he would make it.