Watch me.

Sometimes I want someone who loves me to take a photo of me doing something I love. Engrossed and unaware and detached from this world. I want him to latch on to a camera whether or not he is good at it because he wants to keep that moment somewhere. He knows he cannot live it again and perhaps it was a trivial moment that he forgot about later. Perhaps he thinks it was a bad photograph at that point. But at this moment, now, when he is across the room with his glasses (or not) on and his TV shows/books/calls/laptop tap-dance over, I want to lead his thoughts to me and how I am not his, not the world’s for now. I am in a place he can never occupy and he envies it. But he doesn’t begrudge me for it. He knows that I am complete without him just because I have myself and I don’t need someone to love, but that he is a choice that stays permanent. He knows that in my art and my writing and my emptying out the stories on a plastic keyboard instead of his skin, I am only making myself more. Just more. Not stronger, weaker, deeper, darker. I am more and it’s me adding another bucketful of colour into myself. I want that moment and his eyes in it. I want to be scenery that he passes every day but today he sees as if for the first time, again, the place where he stopped. I want to be his object of amused interest. I want to be studied with the interest of a student into a new subject he did not know exist. I want to be loved when I am not loving back. I want to be captured when I am looking away. I want him across the room in the most intimate moment I am having that has nothing to do with sex or love but has whatever is more than soul put into it.