Photograph 1 (series)

PHOTOGRAPH # 1

It is a photograph of our hands, weaved into each other's while we sat in a bus on a
cold winter's night.

I am clasping, gripping tightly within my cold fingers what little I had of you.

(What little you'd allow me to have.)

On the edge of the photograph my other hand, the one that is not holding on to yours,

tightly forms a fist -- as if to scream, a silent scream, for the lack of fulfillment.

A swelling of anger and loneliness builds slowly and then erupts live lava within my

veins as I remember what I've been trying to forget of those days.

When my friends saw this photograph they all sighed with awe at how love blossomed.

How a photograph decieves! The eye should be taught how not to believe-

blossoming love withered

when your empty eyes met mine, and it whimpered a cry no one else could hear but
me.

This photograph hidden in a sealed box, sings a lonely tune to my heart,

a broken chorded lullaby, so softly it barely feels like a melody.

A distant cry of a seagull captured and buried in a box, from somewhere in my past, I

hear it flap its feeble wings against the edges of the cardboard

And when I take it down from the crevices at the back of the shelve in my closet

It stops moving and

starts

breaking

apart.