Sepia

I kissed my picture of you,
you know the one.

The one where I tried to capture
the brilliance shining behind your eyes,
but got a reflection of my camera in your pupils
instead.
It was a failure, but i still kept it.

And today
I kissed it, pretending it wasn't really a picture.

I wanted it to be a window,
wanted you to be real behind
my gloss-photopaper-imitation.
I closed my eyes and pictured
you
climbing through that picture in my fingers,
putting your arms around me and--
I opened my eyes.
There were sephia lips on your forehead.

Slowly I watched the ink smear
beneath my fingers and
stared into your camera-reflecting-eyes
until they, too, started to distort and fade,
washed into my memory.

The world started to do barrel rolls,
and I slid limply from where I stood
into the  rocking chair that had comforted me
when my fish, hermit crabs, and guinea pig had
died.
I rocked in my chair and closed my eyes,
trying to remember
the colors I saw
hidden in your eyes,
the acapella glitter in your laughter,
and the warmth I felt before I could no longer hold
you.