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
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,
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.