she's here,
   in the photograph on my desk,
but not here at all.
   she's there with me
   frozen in a moment
   before it all slipped away.

i trail
   my fingers
      over the glass,

and wonder if it was ever real.
the way we were,
   before the knife went in.
   before she twisted it
   and let me bleed out
   instead of offering
   a hand.

i can’t shake the feeling
      that she’s still here,
             though she never will be again.