By Anonymous:
__________________________________
To A Creased Snapshot of Us
Of you and I,
photography
will always lie.
The pictures try
but fail to see
how you and I
would smile to cry.
But misery
will always lie,
and won’t supply
the history
of you and I:
my hand, your thigh,
the bed where we
will always lie,
snapped only by
my memory
of you. And I
will always lie.
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