Frames
Photographs fly down where we used to lie down;
Removed by the same hands that used to hold my hands.
We pack them away in cardboard capsules behind closed doors.

Memories stay and decay to the grace of queens and kings;
To the land where dreams are made.
Now hidden in darkness, an empty row of nails line the wall.
My eyes sting with pain; his white tee stained with a cocktail of tears.
We wish to hide beside them; two stowaways, capsized in the present.
Below our melted hearts, blood drains from our veins as the door closes one last time;
On everything we used to know.
Our eyes shut before midnight, no words break the silence;
Wishing for an extra hour.
Hoping for a better day.
Like the ones depicted
Behind the wooden frames.