I took the picture from its hallowed frame

I took the picture from its hallowed frame,
peering into eyes squinted against the sunlight
from years that have slipped away from us.
We were younger then, loved each other then
the best way we knew how.
Dust.
That is what was left
on the glass and black-stained wood.
I thought it was a great frame to
showcase how much I loved you,
but every time it met my gaze, I
shuddered with the shames I could not
bear to give a name.
Thought I’d take it with me always,
but I kept it hidden in the confines
of a musty closet: hidden from every eye,
every face, every scrutiny.

I sigh when I take the photo from
the back. I can’t tear it up.
I just can’t.
I slip it into a crevasse of an abandoned box,
hoping it will find peace there.
A memory never dies until the two
who share it die.
A new visage rests in the hallowed frame;
a gift to a worthier soul.
And what remains of you and I?
Dust. Nightcall by Kavinsky