Dark brooding silver sway.
Her hair behind the camera, laughing. She’s smart, that one. And more spirited than five-star Thai.
Cropping, framing, reading into the inked cravasses of the night.
Could you find my Holga? Forgotten compositions that need to see the light.
Her eyes the color of a clear midday sky at 12,000 feet above sea level. From the tip of her toes to the slender nape of her neck, gradated shades of alabaster.
Flaxen baby curls now genuine soft chocolate shavings floating on a collarbone. But sometimes black and artificial.
That’s Michaela and I love her.