30 years and I marvel at the freshness of the hurt
I hold on to, harbor, treasure; the scarification
tells a story all it's own, fills in details as I recall
them. I have done this for years with out a photo
of you. Not one. My memory's still sketching
with a brush that exaggerates both the good and
the greatness of that love. It set my stars in circles,
overhead. Someone shared a picture: all of us
that summer, group photo, memento, a keepsake
I never kept. And although everyone is blurry,
caught at a cheap camera distance, the photo still
refuses to lie. That is you, standing next to me,
struggling with leaving. Us, holding on so hard
to each other for the last time. Time has frozen us
in the moment of counting what time we had left.
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