Another Photograph

This latest image turns hesitantly within
my fingers as if you are newly born, not
thirty-eight. It’s just last week, four days
have died since your glare was captured,
a lifetime from what we knew - I find myself
wondering what you have become.

Your eyes are hard, smeared with contempt,
no smiles dance about the lines I have loved,
black purple shadows remind me of what was.
Your heavy, dirty hair smothers your shoulders,
an old man beard masks your thoughts and
still young face, leaves me almost broken
but defiant. I still don’t care about

your scars, or rediscovered habits, if your shirt
and pants are strangely stained, or you stand
too close to someone else who isn’t me.
The invisible camera freezes you forever
watching a future implode, casually shifting
my world on its axis and again
I wish I understood.