What's held tightly
like a dusty diary,
in the bloom of
cracked windows,
in the old attic
found again....
a dress in golden
of a prom night
and a song
that dares.
I'll never,
as the howling
of the wind,
is true pain.
I can't express
what I say.

Never held in freeze
of any red motions
photographs
snaps
in seconds
and the chills,
of the afternoon breeze....

lasts forever.