I wish I had a photograph of those moments missing in time,
lovers absent that we cannot find upon the meaner streets of memories,
carrying their rhythms simmering somewhere else where they cannot be seen
or felt no matter how hard we might try to forget how their scent lingers,
like the faded spot on a finger without a band to pawn, to sell,
to throw into a wishing well and remain there. They're just gone, no trace,
no face, no hiding place, just an echo without reverberation,
this damned lost generation, their promises broken,
all their beautiful words spoken without meaning, without gleaning
what means the most to us all before we fall into reverie
without severing the truth from fiction,
every depiction of a shattering heart
just before it came apart in our trembling hands,
but here I stand. I wish I had a photograph of it all, but instead,
it's only etched its sources and its sorcery on my soul.
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