It kills me to imagine
a world where no one else knows
Your tender compassion
And the sound of your fun hellos
Pictures to which I refer
Would never do you justice
And if asked who you were,
a living poem is all I could suffice.
I know photographs and stories could never tell of young dreams
Because to them, our sentimental sagas
are just sundries.
I remember how you’d frown at your reflectio...