His Photograph

Every time I look at his photograph 

An album of memories—

Not in black and white, 

Full of colors, 

Full of joy—flashes like real 

Waves, it makes me feel alive. 

 

Every time I look at his photograph 

I remember his sunny or sullen face, 

His voice, 

His song 

But not his scent; for even 

A withered rose loses its own scent. 

 

Every time I look at his photograph 

I would hear my mom crying, 

Loud and sad. 

Full of emptiness, 

My heart desires to feel his presence. 

And every day I’m afraid for this to fade. 

 

 

Advertisements