rg— not a word. A wound. A color between rose and rust, geranium and grief. The sprocket holes blur. What was meant to be a face is now a geography of leak: orange rivers, green lakes shrinking into red.
digital poem / simulated 35mm film strip (The frame starts dark. Then—a crack of magenta, a thumbprint of sun.) light leaks rg
The film wasn’t loaded right. Or the back popped open on a July sidewalk— heat shivering up from asphalt. Light found its way in, as light always does. rg— not a word
R.G. In the darkroom, your initials bleed through the fixer. R for reappear . G for gone . I hold the negative up— you are all inversion now: your laugh a white scar, your hand a shadow against a window where the sun shouldn’t reach. The sprocket holes blur