Figures lie splayed in some careless space.
You peer through, sometimes centered on the page
or haphazard, stuck askew, and tucked with tape—
a beat, a blink, a tilt, a pulse, a phase.
Knives of light and spilled shadows haunt
each frozen plane. Angled borders frame
lifeless lines. With every click, your wide eyes
fixed beneath your shroud of glossy sheen.
How many mourners will take their time to stare
and will those moments die when strangers
cannot see or care what you were, and bound
heavy, locked in memory, never will become?
Now as I wane, my tears turn thick with every year,
though you grow younger when your face appears.
2013
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