I own seven pairs—sunglasses mainly— and some unmatched with my face—
although I would like to think otherwise.
I forget them regularly
just as a piece of jewellery,
thinking there will come a time
when I might need them,
a time when I would like to embellish
myself with their scratches—not yet earned—
marks of the world lightly rained on,
fallen, picked up, at times
lost in feverish summer.
Seven pairs feels like seven versions of you waiting for the right afternoon. The scratches haven’t happened yet. For now they belong to future summers, and I hope one pair comes home completely wrong for your face and very loved.
Fallen, lost, picked up, scratched - a beautiful way to describe the desperate lives of sunglasses.