To last the days
that break to Frey
Into this rain that falls
And the silence-
That shoots anew
From a seed lost.

This is our beat.

A crumpled photograph.
To pass unnoticed but seen
And haunt the eyes it meets.
A missing person
looking for its frame,
Finding its shards
on the dinner table,
Reflecting someone,
Someone once there.

The rain is getting loud-
it’s pauses stretch
And I exist in the stills
with no frame.
No glass to shatter
from a tear broken.

I picked up the photograph;
Smooth and worn
from the damp.
Brittle and torn
from the lives it held.
Mocking still,
with its fade.

The features blur
As we do

It doesn’t quite fit,
Edges fiddle to no corners
as if it’s existence passes
to outlines of new owners.

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