In a photograph
without a subject
you, standing
with your back
to my camera.
I long for a face,
your eyes, a soft smile,
or even just a pair of hands.
I remember us being
so lonely for each other,
and there on the shelf
a girl standing by herself.
Not just the empty cottage
dilapidated, all alone, my love,
you left three months ago
and the old house behind the dunes
now a photographic manipulation.
A wonder of the modern age,
complete with cuts and splices
where you used to sit, an empty
place in the bed, a gaping hole
somewhere above my navel.
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 10:56 PM UTC
In a photograph
without a subject
you, standing
with your back
to my camera.
I long for a face,
your eyes, a soft smile,
or even just a pair of hands.
I remember us being
so lonely for each other,
and there on the shelf
a girl standing by herself.
Not just the empty cottage
dilapidated, all alone, my love,
you left three months ago
and the old house behind the dunes
now a photographic manipulation.
A wonder of the modern age,
complete with cuts and splices
where you used to sit, an empty
place in the bed, a gaping hole
somewhere above my navel.
