I knew that I'll lose you someday
And that day
Has already past
It's been 2 weeks
Since i last saw you
And it hurts to know
That we are back to being strangers
I still keep your photos on my phone
And still smile at them
Knowing how happy i was
During that day
When i was with you
I was so happy
But all i can afford to do now
Is to smile
At those memories
Its hurting me deeply inside
I have photos on my wall
everywhere i see
the friends i used to have
the old young me
in each picture, there was a memory
and just so much more
but each picture keeps reminding me
the moments, i cant go back to anymore
I have come to realise that I am
One of those kind of people
The kind that are forever
In the background
Of everyone else's photos.
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It's been two months
I still haven't been
Able to upload a photo
What the Actual
There’s nothing better
than beautiful photos filled
with special moments
love my family photos I have plenty hanging on my walls at home always makes me smile when I look at them ;❤️
We have so many pictures together
Since our middle school years
Until this very day
When you left me without explanation
I burn one photo everyday but kept the last one.
You know why?
Because part of me crazily wants you even if I know you will never return to me
For the last 3 years I still can't move on from her
Certain things are bound to an end:
Your favorite school bag that you got from the mall,
The flower necklace you made out of chamomile the other day,
And the freshness and gleam of your juvenile face.
These things will gradually leave you
The schoolbag will rot and crumble
The flowers will fade and disappear
And your skin will wrinkle up and change
Certain things are bound to an end,
And other things are not:
The memory of holding the bag to school will remain
The photo while wearing the necklace will be cherished
And the smiles radiating your skin will become immortal.
Life is not bound to physical measures
Life is a series of memories, photos, and smiles.
Cherish them and forget everything that exists in the realm of time.
In the stillness of a teacup morning
in Amsterdam a crowd with yellow stars
query each other, a collapse of
suitcases and stuffed pillow cases
huddled under a gas lamp at a corner square,
while those in the stories above slowly turn away.
A few days before the yellow stars were
twenty-one children with backpacks
dreaming of a long field trip to Deventer.
The school picture they posed for would
be discovered fifty-four years later
under the frame of an oil painting
of the freedom monument in Dam Square.
Sieg, wandering in the fog of Bergen-Belsen
his classmates part of the mound
of George Rodgers well published frieze,
the only one of them not camera shy,
made it back to his mother and sister,
forever now a New York Jew.
Before them the square hosted
the frail bones of yellow star seniors,
their children depositing them
silently and hurriedly under
the hiss of the lamp shutting
off from the night watch.
Daan sewed the photo
of his yellow star grootmoeder
on a wooden chair staring into the sun
into the lining of his jacket
and felt its pressure on the day
when the train arrived for him too.
The freight train to the Westbrook stockyard
the stench of manure, ****, fetid hay,
the old scent of cattle mingling with man,
fear embedded in every board,
was, as always, on time.
Lost love letters
Crammed into boxes
Forgotten first kisses
Left in the backseat
Eyes like oceans
The beating drum
I so rely on
Wasteland of old photos
Fading with stolen memories