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. 
 
 
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