The Photo

I found a photo of us
in my childhood home,
tucked inside the journal
I kept at nineteen.

Locked in the drawer beneath my bed,
where dust had softened the corners
and time had thinned the edge.

Your arms rested on my shoulders,
your gaze still,
skin sunburned at the cheeks —
summer pressed into your face.

I held the picture gently,
afraid to scratch its surface
with the edge of a nail.

And I remembered how it felt —
that endless season
when we believed
it would always be 
you and me.