details slip through busy fingers
but still warm the wistful touch
and time over-exposes memory
like a photograph left in the sun
so I don't recall what you wore
or the music we played that day
or where we were driving from
or the photographer counting down...
but I remember the flashbulbs when you held me:
the way they spun your hair gold
and star-bursted my vision
like we were the models of love
and this is picture proof
that the sunlight captured our moment
and I haven't forgotten what you said,
"write a poem about this."
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
details slip through busy fingers
but still warm the wistful touch
and time over-exposes memory
like a photograph left in the sun
so I don't recall what you wore
or the music we played that day
or where we were driving from
or the photographer counting down...
but I remember the flashbulbs when you held me:
the way they spun your hair gold
and star-bursted my vision
like we were the models of love
and this is picture proof
that the sunlight captured our moment
and I haven't forgotten what you said,
"write a poem about this."
