Photos

Across these spans, between square photographs
I take the tomes, and pull apart their halves
The dust is wet, as are my eyes
My fingers tinged, from my unspoken cry

Your face is thin, young as dandelion
Brighter too, a shining star of scion
What were we then, chasing shadow kites
And thought them high, as angels taken flight
Feather fallen fingernails by me
Point to where we’ve written all our lives

Just like a fog, burned slowly by a flame
The past shall drift, always making way
A kind of call, the wind that passes by
Coloured grey, from dreaming left behind
Taken with a pen of sudden memory
Even if the letters do not dry

The waxen moon, paling more with age
A mass of holes, more beaten by the days
A flipping book, counting the leaves to go
While I remain, on what I read ago

No tears for me, who spent them all in haste
There were the pains, along with bliss I taste
The room now blurs, all but your look to me
That gives me peace, the one finality
That this is all a shadow of the real thing
That made me turning old worth all my life