45.  The Fleeting Nature of Paper and Ink

In my heart

There is the faintest of songs,

A picture of words,

Detailing the "what I thought we were"

And the "who we've always been."

It's the false picture I carry,

Holding it relatively still

So the frame doesn't break,

The photo doesn't bend,

And I can keep pretending

What I always thought

Always was.

But this is the season

I've taken down all those photos

Bared them naked on the bed

Touched the fleeting nature

Of paper and ink

And stolen only slight

Glimpses of reality,

Knowing full well

We'll hit it head on,

straining to hear a different

Song,

His "Peace, be still,"

Even in this storm

Of never knowing

The "what"

of who

we

are.