In a photograph without a subject you, standing with your back to my camera.
I long for a face, yourΒ eyes, a soft smile, or even just a pair of hands.
I remember us being so lonely for each other, and there on the shelf a girl standing by herself.
Not just the empty cottage dilapidated, all alone, my love, you left three months ago and the old house behind the dunes now a photographic manipulation.
A wonder of the modern age, complete with cuts and splices where you used to sit, an empty place in the bed, a gaping hole somewhere above my navel.