The tenderness in closing your eyes,
as if she were right there.
Holding your picture in a wooden frame,
slowly moving it towards her chest.

Her chin rising as yours sinks,
closing her eyes and lowering her head once again.
A single tear descending with it,
to touch the photo's glass and to dry up next to the others.

Placing the photo back on the shelf,
as you turned your back she does too.
And forgets,
at least, until next morning.

As we both tenderly close our eyes again,
And imagine the other,
doing what they never will.