I still stare at your picture. There you are, so pristine and pressed between the glass and brass, looking into the distance, slight smile, curved lips. I remember the first time we kissed. I remember when it was me in the distance. I’m in the past now, I am the past. Why do you remain in my present? 
That photo of you, I’ve studied it. The deep dimple in your chin – I pressed my thumb there once, saying, “done”, thinking it was God who put that there, finishing you, and dropping you into the clouds. 
Your eyes, are brown, the color of Earth, they matched your hair and your brows. I look into the mirror, and I am “mismatched”, I wish I was matched, like you.
 That picture of you, it speaks from it’s frame, you called me “Yankee Deedle”.  Did you like apple pie? I’m indifferent.
 When I talk to your picture, thinking you may answer, I ask you, if my memory ever browses across your brow.
  I’m the past, alone with and without you, in the present.


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