You slide your key into the lock and open the door.
Normal people are soundly immersed in slumber at this time of the night, but you haven’t closed your eyes for any reason other than to blink in the past sixteen hours. Your shoulders are sore, and you can feel an impression from the thin leather strap on the skin of your collarbone.
Slumping down onto the mattress, you notice a pair of bruises on your hips.
They’re the result of your cameras (unapologetic lovers that they are) repeatedly kissing your sides as you wander the streets, consumed with the hunt for a sight that makes you feel…something.
That indescribably beautiful moment that occurs when you push down slowly, but with determination, on the shutter release, stealing slivers of others’ lives to keep for yourself, because you recognize the subtle, yet exquisite nature of an action they may not give a shadow of a second thought to.
As it stands, you’re out of film, and struggling to keep your eyes open.
Setting their metal bodies down on the coffee table, it’s time for you, and your patient companions to go to bed.
So you can wake up tomorrow and do the same thing.
Because love is bruised hips and a pocket full of moments.