for the moment that never moved

I keep the photo of you,
not for your smile,
but for the memories behind it.
The way your collar curled
like a question never asked,
the light grazing your cheek
as if it knew
this was the last time
you’d be that exact version of you.

You are forever mid-laugh,
forever leaning just so,
forever unaware
that I would return
to this frame
like a pilgrim to a relic,
touching the edges
as if they could answer
what time refused to explain.

The world has spun
since that shutter blinked,
but you–
you remain
untouched by the turning.
No grief has reached you there.
No apology.
No change.

I keep the photo of you
because it doesn’t ask for anything.
It doesn’t age.
It doesn’t forget.
It simply holds
what I cannot:
the stillness of you,
before the leaving,
before the blur.

And in between heartbeats,
I visit you,
not to remember,
but to stay.