the stale album,

its pages worn, cracked, yellowing,

held just remnants

black and white photos,

evidence of past gone by,

of that which is never to be gained

the figures in the images,

frozen in the eternal instant,

are happy, not knowing that

their happiness is stillborn,

for,

as i turn the pages,

dust billowing, obscuring my view,

the pictures age,

and I am two,

and he is gone.

the last pages,

agonzing in their simplicity,

are mocking in their emptiness,

symbols of an empty life,

saying,

who are you to

Care

Where

He’s

Gone.