that old photograph

You are the lone cello then,
in this sad evening of forgetting.
Singing in a baritone of sorrow,
languid and insisting.

Drawing my mind back to
those mornings, when we'd both wake
to no alarm; we'd shut our eyes
to the world, for one another's sake.

You are the scent of yesterday then,
triggering images of us:

that old photograph,
black and white, but mostly grey
blurred by the camera's vision
and mostly frayed.
It speaks to me so intimately
of evenings when we were lost
between red wine, kisses
and long-side glances.
Your head upon my shoulder,
my bottom upon your lap:
arms encircling tightly.
Oh, how i was trapped
by my need for your love,
my love for your needs,
the now, just a minute, just a little more.
My hands grasping on so hard
that my knuckles wore
that fatigued, desperate shade of white.

Let it go, let it go,
it's a terrible love.

mylou