There it is.

The past preserved – buried, successfully forgotten about. Hermetically sealed scents and sounds of years ago, an album of feelings locked away because they were so damn heavy. They were so raw, so sore.

We look so young. You look so beautiful, so little different I realise now, after all this time spent forgetting. You cover your mouth in nearly every photo, but your eyes are always staring at me. Into me. They stare and do not blink. I look thinner, more stupid maybe. There’s a simpleness to the way I glance at the world that I can’t place, as if I’ve seen none of it before. We really do look so young. I can see something burning behind my eyes. There’s an urgency, like a heartbeat, heavy and furious beneath bones afraid to contain it. Something that isn’t there anymore. It’s in every picture, making me look different – expressions on my face I’m somehow not used to seeing in the mirror. And then I see it – the simpleness that burns, and why. Why I no longer see it reflected at bath time, in puddles when it rains or on tube journeys by myself.

Love. I am completely burning inside with love for you. I am on fire in every image I see. In every single photograph I see it and I remember.