Memories Something Like Scrapbooks

Life is like a labyrinth of photographs.

It’s a cataclysm of memories and memorandums and

I wonder if this is how you picture me:

If I am still to you a small bundle,

Not quite open to the world or even your quiet palms;

If I am still a swath of messy handwriting written across

Notebook paper-

Three pages I recall,

The pages I wrote to you on Valentine’s Day and

Isn’t it strange how I used to speak to you every day but

I still had three pages worth of writing left.

I wonder if I am still the voice you called home,

The voice that you said was your favorite sound or am I

Just a distant ping in the forests of your mind,

Overgrown and tired and worthless,

Only a small part of the big “Who You Are”.

I wonder if I am still a face in the mirror that you saved

In the outer banks of your boyhood or am I

The object you watched dance around your footsteps,

Overexcited, eccentric;

Dull, overdone.

And I think of myself-

The me when I was only “Living for You”-

And I don’t quite remember its ticks and tocks and

The way I used to dress on Friday nights or,

The way I used to tell you all of my sorrows with only a look in my eyes-

How did I make you want to speak to me again

That first day with only a small smile and a laugh.

Because it seems that my enchantments were stolen from me-

It seems that when you took the photographs of my life,

You also took my inner soul and

I’m still lost to myself twelve months later.

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