Sunday, 1 November 2009

The Photographer

The last picture he took was of her smile, of her lips, that had endured the burden of his,for a while now.

Widening with every blink , her lips rose , rose and fell.He kissed her,He felt it stop, between his lips, her life, for once he had kept his promise.Walking away with a tear in his eye, and a smile on his face,he had, his last photograph.

I saw him lying next this story, I had to read this, before I called in the police and eventually the morgue. He called himself The Photographer. A reason that intrigued me as he bore no semblance of a person whose life was spent behind the lights of glamour and the depths of a dark room.

PS: Sadly,This story will remain incomplete as the wind blew those letters away

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