Pictures Of You

The seventies burnt in orange and brown corduroy,
scratched, stretched and held together with Scotch

tape. The eighties smoldered in somber florescent
hues, peppier, yet more thoughtful. In my head

I keep black and white images, a Polaroid holding
nothing in color but your lips pursed in a question

beneath a piano. At night we were safe. The flash lit
nothing but your nose, the faded page of your cheeks,

your sweater washed out at the edges. My albums
spin with a skip, my movies look awful in high-def.

I love you in still-life without the hope of movement,
in memory. Fidelity is the tragedy of technology.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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