BB Grey–musings

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Have you ever loved a photograph?

Not the person.
The paper.

Corners curled.
Edges yellow.
Your fingerprints pressed into it—
again, again.

A relic.
A prayer.

Flat image—
yet it breathes.
Two into three.
Three into something
untouched by time.

I fall inside.
Invent the dialogue.
Score the silence.
Make the light softer
than it ever was.

The picture forgives
what memory could not.

I keep too many.
They hold me upright.
They keep today
from vanishing.

But still—

is it the paper?
The story I wrote over it?
Or the person,
long gone,
who may no longer exist
in that way?

The photo doesn’t answer.
It waits.
It holds.
It aches.

Sepia.

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