to me you are just a photograph
a five-by-seven rectangle
of glossy paper
pinned on my white wall
with a thumbtack.
all of you is crammed into that space,
a box that contains your smile,
two-dimensional and impersonal,
false.
there's a rip on one corner
where part of your forehead dangles
ready to be completely perforated,
because you have no control
over where i store you
whether it's in my arms
or just on my walls.

*(a.m.c.)