Photograph

I rest my hand on a book,
a memory of your long, bare back,
arms sprouting like tired branches,
from your shoulders- that deserve more adjectives.
A vague shadow irritates me, fills up this room,
Silly, a scent of delusion, an urge
that lies dead,
with you.

I see your young face, thin pursed lips,
no history to it, not yet, no
You were far too young
far too quiet
and wrote letters instead

I never spoke of the heart,
it was a tad bit used, and almost
worthless; and you
were just as tired with
your round eyes, punctuated
every now and then
with a heartless
blink

There were a lot of stories
between us, hanging upside down
(like weary bats in sunny afternoons,
evading clouds of dust)
But neither you, nor I
knew how to tell one

I settled for a handshake,
a customary sigh

I now keep small photographs,
of significant people,
(people
I might have loved at some point,
in my silliness)
and I keep them in a secret pocket
of my journal;
I take them, and overleaf
I scribble a word;
behind yours I wrote 'Patience'
as if it were
the last memory I had of you,
A memory where,
I was left waiting

I think I am in love again,
this time around though,
it really is a stranger