Leaks Rg | Light

rg— not a word. A wound. A color between rose and rust, geranium and grief. The sprocket holes blur. What was meant to be a face is now a geography of leak: orange rivers, green lakes shrinking into red.

R.G. In the darkroom, your initials bleed through the fixer. R for reappear . G for gone . I hold the negative up— you are all inversion now: your laugh a white scar, your hand a shadow against a window where the sun shouldn’t reach. light leaks rg

digital poem / simulated 35mm film strip (The frame starts dark. Then—a crack of magenta, a thumbprint of sun.) rg— not a word

It blends the aesthetic of analog photography (light leaks) with the evocative, ambiguous resonance of the letters rg —read as “are gee” (a questioning sound), R.G. (initials), or a visual color bleed between red and green . light leaks rg The sprocket holes blur

Each leak is a lie the camera tells to save what it cannot keep. The light doesn’t destroy the image. It adds . A second story. A ghost aperture. Somewhere, a shutter stayed open too long, and rg became the sound of breath fogging the lens.

Look: the final print is wrong in the most honest way. Your shoulder is a waterfall of amber. The sky behind you has a pulse. We are not in this photograph— we are what escaped when the seal broke. R.G. leak. remember. ruin gently. End note on the frame: (A single strip of 35mm. At the bottom, scratched into the emulsion: “light leaks rg / don’t fix this.”)

The film wasn’t loaded right. Or the back popped open on a July sidewalk— heat shivering up from asphalt. Light found its way in, as light always does.