You’re nothing more than ink on an old, unread page in a forgotten urban library; one not so urban as to have visitors but so urban as to have the unlearned come and pretend and imagine themselves as their antitheses. Your name is nothing more than history, the past. Your life affects no-one to this day. Your father’s name, work and moustache are unimportant. Your “very happy family”, Clemens, or has your name changed since? is dead, gone and forgotten except those lovely souls trying to find between the books, the pages, the lines. His Roman Nose isn’t important to your adoration. Your adoration is nothing. You’re nothing.

But then why is your beauty so enthralling? Why can I not take my eyes off your face, lost in time? Your lips, shaded on the left, stay silently unopened eternally. Oh love, oh love! Your shadow casts a spell of your beauty on the wall. I am simply lost In your brown eyes, in black and white. The contours of your timeless face pursue my thoughts and take them as lovesick captives. Your hair, full, and pulled effortlessly back. Oh, love! If there was only more of you to see, below the neck. Your pale skin, white dress. Gold, necklace. ******, ears. Your chaste, elapsed beauty has once graced this world. But now resides here as a photograph.


A face lost in time.