Bound by leather black and paper white, a collection of photographs sit alone on a page of their own, an island of pale cream with no caption nor date. The front of the album is plain, no indication of what is inside or what all of it means, photographs in monochrome, in colors faded and well-adored. Polaroids once held and hung — the photographers waited patiently for them to develop, admiring them and the images they captured in time and space and the features in between, like the space between their fingers they gingerly laced together, temples meeting gently as the cool breeze from the open window met their exposed skin.

Among them were the remnants of a war well fought, one of low laughs and high adrenaline, features fixated on the movement of muscles under bare skin, tangled in sheets with nothing to hide behind but their own hair, the latter quickly brushed away as the former was drawn back over them.

There were few nights where they’d been able to spend such time together, stories told through pursed lips and heavy lashes as they sought to fill every moment, every minute, every second together with something sweet and soft and utterly complete.

It’d begun one night out of pure happenstance, with a bold action taken by the endearing romantic himself, Polaroid camera in hand as he playfully directed her where to lay, covered by nothing but the sheets that contrasted devilishly with her dark hair. It’d begun as such: a few pictures of her, a few of him, but soon it became far more. It took little time for the art of it all to arise, for the photos to serve as trinkets and tokens of time forgone but not forgotten, kept in a shoebox high in his closet before one evening he’d found himself woeful, lonely. The comfort he sought was unreachable due to her busy schedule, unavailable, and thus he was drawn to the collection in the closet.

With a gifted and unused photo album at the ready, the project began, a collection of photos gently placed inside the safety of the book, encapsulating and confirming the wholeness of his heart. With no faces in view, it was like their own secret, one that made his heart race whenever they looked through it together or added to the collection. Perhaps it was selfish, perhaps it was a frighteningly accurate depiction of the manner in which their hearts were intertwined, forever yearning and bleeding for one another in the simplest yet strangest ways.

Each page was a memory, a reason he rose each day, a reason he continued to feel the pulse in his veins and air in his lungs.

Together they were one Close yet separate, separate but whole

The album spoke of secrets, of stories untold, of times in the past, of times in the present

The album opened their scars while also sealing off others that bleed flesh wounds like fountains of red and streams a’ plenty

A single page, a single memory, a single reason to breathe, to remember, to cherish, to love, to never perish in the heart of one, nor in the hearts of many

Bare skin in black and white, wrapped and exposed in pale sheets that sought to cover them but seemed to fail at every turn

With faces hidden, they were for once anonymous, but there were ways to tell, with ink sunk deep beneath the surface of skin, something that could sink him if the photos were to ever meet the light of day

It was an album met by but two sets of eyes, enjoyed over coffee or tea, or a drink on the evenings they could not rest in one another’s arms

Soft and gentle, come and tame the beast within me

I am built of morality and destined for a life long, crafted by letters and images burned on paper and skin, built to last a lifetime, however long the earth allows me to stay, to spin and grin and take you in my arms, my place, my paradise — my heavens here on Earth for they do not allow the devils in me to reach such blesséd heights