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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.
Filed under Personal, Thoughts & Poems
❤ Poignant.
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Truly! But thanks for reading. It certainly brought a smile to my face ❤
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