Old lovers, they say, go the way of old photographs
They fade away until only the outlines remain
But you, my darling, stay in photographs
And we love through words and sigh to ourselves.
What wouldn’t I do to entangle myself
In your sheets as if they were mine
In your limbs, as if they were mine
In your life as if you were mine?
All I have is your general outline
And yet, you do not fade away
I draw me your face, its shadings
Pimples, and then moles, and then you a whole.
Inspired by this quote by my Queen Margaret Atwood:
Old lovers go the way of old photographs, bleaching out gradually as in a slow bath of acid: first the moles and pimples, then the shadings. Then the faces themselves, until nothing remains but the general outlines.