Malena in Portra
Capturing memories through context and reference.
She believes I overdose on thoughts of her perfection and the only hope for my sobriety is the memory of her deception. I confess I dream of her less often though the traces of her hands are still visible through the tempest in my eyes. Admittedly, I miss the language guaranteed to bypass a lifetime of loyalty; a secret line especially designed for her and me. I wonder, will she recognize the claims against a counterfeit love? As I have, you'll find this one redundant; I'm exhausted by her lavish supply, a private reservoir to anesthetize while my scrupulous mind deals with the discrepancy. How much longer must this composition be? Perhaps I'll end it here and thus, establish the integrity of my fashion; follow her gaze and you will find me harboring doubt in her palate.
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