Short end of the stick called affection

I look at your picture in that old box,
you can describe it with no words spoken,
because as anyone can see in this photo,
you look torn, hurt, and broken,

Your eyes give off a special message,
as if to communicate,
That thing you always use to do,
that thing you knew i hate,

You weren't much of a socialist,
it's crystal clear to see,
with your hands in your pocket and your hair in your face,
still gazing right towards me,

Although you never talked much,
just sat there and looked pretty,
i still couldn't get a word in with my voice stuck in my throat,
How that was a pity,

I spent most of my life trying to impress you,
just trying to catch your attention,
but the only thing that i EVER received,
was the short end of the stick named affection,

So finally i gave up on you,
I just decided to leave you at peace,
but now with this photo of you now in my hands,
My love has yet to ceased