To burn with a swaying flame

He falls into the distance of lens flare. Corpses of color sift into silver. Sifted into silver. The light distortion was a flickered beam a million years in the making—and he holds it in his hands. He tries to imagine the day the photo was taken, but the subjects seem too unreal. Too white by faulty light meters. Too still by nature. Sifted into silver, chested and ingested for a breath. It's too easy to imagine the next moment they moved, unaware of their unreality. Their bodies relaxed into time again. He falls a distance of lens flare, 266.7 millimeters of a lifetime.