In the Dark Room

In the dark room, you develop
in low, red water, your face
a stain of shades.

I pierce your corners, turn
you over, and on a mountain
you take shape.

I've dodged the fog, I've burned
your hair, and here are your eyes
in a blurred, soft focus

overexposed and with a stare
more pointed than the peaks
behind your shoulder.

I stir the fixer, agitate your frame
until your borders encapsulate
a mood devoid of time.

(Critiquing, they said
"Strange atmosphere,"
"Such weight in the blacks and grays."

Since, I've looked at you
in different lights, and yes—
the sadness sustains.)

.