It has scratches and marks,
folds and wrinkles,
some lines from my oil pastels.
Some gloss and color have peeled away,
the corners folded in or out -
they decide.

It's not old...
fresh on the paper,
into the world almost one year ago.
The colors it shows have aged almost three years,
but its holder not.

Its tears and its scratches,
its marks and its lines,
the folds and the creases,
are from a year of hands holding,
from a year of moving from desk to book,
book to desk.

My wall is empty white now,
only bearing the bright colors
the beat-up photograph beholds.
The smiles, the two smiles, on a day of celebration,
remind me of days better,
of happiness that was,
happiness that can be.

The beat-up photograph
is one that is bittersweet.
Sadness for the one smile not with me,
for the other that used to be.
Glee for the memories made,
for the laughs laughed
and the smiles grinned.
Melancholy for longing to go back,
leave the dark behind.

Its tears and rips,
folds and scrapes,
marks and chips,
they avoid the teeth -
the teeth smiling,
the teeth reminding.
A forehead scratched,
but eyes avoided...
presenting true happiness attained.
I see the truth through eyes on paper
in a beat-up photograph.