Image
Jan 28 2026
I hold this image of you.
If I look directly, it seems to recede;
so better to glance, not dwell.
You’d think that something in your head
could only get so far away,
but the mind is capacious;
as dismissive of space
as it is of time.
So not only untouchable
no matter how much I strain
but untouched by age;
a snapshot
taken when the world was young.
And not a still image
but the moving picture you always were;
too kinetic to catch,
too gossamer to keep
at least for long.
Never kept nor caught
in the time we had together.
And now, I fear the image will fade
like a Polaroid
left too long in the light;
the blacks turning to greys
and the greys eventually lost
to a washed-out white.
So just as photographs aren’t forever
memory is flawed,
no matter how sure you are
that truth is singular.
Like trick photography,
the dark room art
of a mind imagining
too long and too hard.
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