You May Not Take Back the Picture You Gave Me

You may not even remember that I found it in a book,
used as a place mark years before
and lost there on the shelf
-- the story unfinished.
The aged binding set the book apart in the row;
I tilted my head full on the ear
to read the title: "The Bulpington of Blup".
How strange.
I pulled it carefully from its place, throwing off the balance of its surroundings.
Thumbing open the book, the pages smelled of damp leaves and pipe tobacco.
The photograph tumbled from its hiding spot and landed on my bare foot. Setting the book down, I retrieved the Polaroid, and grinned at the faded smile of a twelve year old you. I lingered over the long, slender legs you had walked around on. I briefly touched the two dimensional space where your breasts were budding beneath a violet blouse.
I flipped the picture over and held it out to you.
"That was taken around Easter. I remember it was quite warm that year, or maybe the holiday fell late." You slipped it back into the pages of the book.
You kissed me good night and said that I could borrow it.
I have finished the book and it was returned before you left, but the photograph I keep in my copy of "Lolita".