Published March 25, 2015 by Shreya Rajvanshi

I remember the camera you gave
Me on my sixteenth birthday,
Our laugh was the first memory it held,
Young, juvenile, innocent, naive,
The second time you opened its
Shutters was to frame my
Rain – struck face when I saw you
With her, and you said it was nothing.
My damaged trust was the
Third memory it captured,
Bruised, shackled, smokey, wounded.
And you finally set these
Memories free when you
Hit it so hard, that
Even the mirror cracked.
That, my love, was the fourth
And the final memory.


21 comments on “Captured.

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