It had been too many winters since I had last seen him, heard him, touched him. Since I was engulfed in the aroma of who he was. Who I was. Who we were. I heard the keys rattle. The door swung open. Hard but silent. I could hear his footsteps crackle along the floorboards. Deep in stride, but lacking purpose. For the first time in a long time, I was afraid. I had to go. I needed to go. I was already gone. But it was too late. It happened. His eyes locked with mine, and in that moment, I couldn't look away. For this was a look I had seen all too often. A look of my own causation. An empty look. Full of longing, longing for hope. But was there any left? There couldn't be. Not for me anyway. Not for us. But even then, his gaze did not falter. And I swear for just a moment I could of seen him smile. It was ever so slight, but lingering in the background. He edged closer. And closer. Too close. I wanted to move but I was frozen in his presence. I shouldn't have come back here. Should I? In that moment he took me in his hand. His eyes staring deep into who I was. Who we used to be. His eyes then flickered to my face. I could tell he wanted to touch me. He hadn't touched me in so long. I hadn't felt him in so long. But  I wanted to. I needed to. And then it happened. Gentle and soft his palm caressed the length of my face, tracing the apples of my cheeks. How I longed to feel him. But I didn't. He didn't. We didn't. Feel anything at all. In that moment his eyes engorged into a rage of which I had never before seen. I stepped back. But to no avail. The frame flung across the floor, the glass breaking, shattering. My face slipping from its encasement. Falling to the floor, just like I had done so many winters ago. Pick me back up. Pick me back up. It was all I could think. It was all I could say. All I could plead. But he just turned round, closing his eyes. Closing on me. Like I wasn't even there. And in truth, I wasn't. My whole life amounting to a photograph in a frame. A paper reminder of who I used to be. Of who we used to be. Of who we never will be again.

For a photo can say a thousand words, but never the ones that matter.