Picture Poem
After the final picture, I’ve abandoned the rain,
Nothing I could create could capture you again.
Shared friends drifted away the day you were gone,
As if the walls had to crumble once your image was drawn.
In that frame, I stand alone, yet faces come and go,
So many before, so many after, but none I truly know.
A new figure stands beside me now, but I remain still,
For who would gaze at this portrait after you filled the bill?
I’ll send it, but first, I must confess—
No one I’ve met resembles me since your image left its trace.
And what caused the dampness on these walls, you ask?
Perhaps a single, rusted nail, loosened after the task.
