I guess I looked alright

in your light,

at the left-hand corner

of an HDR snapshot 

from that semester,

with my high-socked legs

tangled in a mess

extending down our backs

to your hands,

where you held your notebook

gently.

 

I watched you,

you,

play with that expansive

lined canvas,

as if skill was some thing

you could whip

around and sling

at will---

talent

wasn’t really talent at all,

but some far-fetched product

of unfathomable perfection

that I had been blessed with,

by proxy.

 

the photo wrinkles now---

cracking and flaring faintly

across our faces

like some sun-baked dish

left out too long.

I see gold in the corners

of those eyes,

that danced along their winking pages

watching stories mature to ripeness

and shrink back again

to nothing.

 

the college-ruled lines of your book

have yellowed as well.

it could be the light,

faint here

now that noon has passed

and I sit remembering…

but these old polaroids

you insisted on,

heavy with plastic,

seem to decay

so quickly.

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