If love were instant and ready-made, life would be worth the effort we put into it. But life is like a polaroid and a photographer. The photographer captures a beautiful moment, admires it and cherishes it for sometime, even shows it off. But then bigger and better things to photograph come along and the photographer continues on their journey, forgetting completely of that beautiful moment they were so fond of such a short time ago. Now they've forgotten about the image, left it sitting on the edge of a desk carved with impressions of the many love notes and tear stained pages that you wrote, bearing down with every flash of pain that ripped your being in two and the soothing needle and thread that mended it one day at a time.Soon the summer breeze's delicate fingers, that consist of change and salt, will gently lift the forgotten picture off of the table, curiously admire it, then float it to someone else in the world who will accept it and maybe, hopefully hide it between the pages of their journal to mingle with the words inked on their heart. Or perhaps tack it to a bulletin board among many other memories, that when no one is looking, come alive and fellowship together, dancing in the sunlight, jumping in the chilly, emerald depths of the sea, or holding your best friend's hand. One cloudy day, with a lot weighing on your mind, you will remember the beauty of that picture you took long ago and search for it at first half-heartedly and then your heart will pound with the new concept of loss. You become frantic, tearing your room apart, scattering polaroids across the floor under your bare feet, digging through desk drawers, in old school notebooks.The memories you traded for the old are no longer your priority; you have no idea what's happening, what's been happening all along. Then you sit on your bed and realize the precious memories are lost. She is gone, gone forever. And you sit there alone in your remorse.
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