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We Will Never Be This Young Again
Proof That We Were Here: A Love Letter to Every Picture I’ve Ever Taken
My love language isn’t spoken,
it lives behind a lens,
in the click that stops a moment
before it slips and bends
into memory, into maybe,
into do you still recall—
I’m not trying to possess time,
I’m just trying not to lose it all.
I photograph the ordinary
because I know the truth:
this exact light on your face
will not return to prove
that this moment ever happened,
that we sat here, just like this,
laughing at something small and stupid
that time will later miss.
I take pictures of your hands,
your coffee going cold,
the way you look when you don’t know
I’m watching ghat’s the gold.
Not the posed and perfect version,
but the real, unguarded you,
because someday I’ll need proof
that all of this was true.
