I think I may like pictures too much.
Hang them on walls, tack them to the fridge, hiding in shoe boxes,
let me show you the ones from my wallet.
Smiling,
trapped but happy.
Captured.
Ordered to stay within the glossy boundaries. 
Maybe it's matte,
as long as it's framed right. 
Running my fingers along the circumference of the nostalgic circle,
Barricaded again and again, "I miss when"-
Held hostage behind the too examined life.
I think I like pictures too much.