Between you and me,
I kiss your photograph
when I pass,
the one on my phone
or the ones in frames
or  behind glass.

I do it secretly
so no one else
can see,
just between
you and me.

Sometimes
I blow a kiss
from my palm,
hoping it
will reach you
wherever you are,
a mere spiritual
world away
or maybe so
not quite far.

Some days,
I hold things
which were yours,
try and sense
the feel of you,
the scent of you
within the cloth
or book or other things,
holding tight to see
what comes or what
you may bring.

There is a part of me
that's forever lost,
part of me
that has a hole,
a scar, a wounded
heart and mind;
but also there are
parts of you which
none can take,
the link of memories,
the genetic hold
within me still,
your sound of voice,
the way you were
and stood, joked,
laughed or looked,
that picture of you
within my mind,
which none can see.

I kiss your picture
when I pass, secretly,
between you and me.