Each instance I attempt to organize revisited is one frame
Nostalgic it could be said, reminiscence at blame
No detail have I left to find in this photograph of mine
The same names carved into the wall behind us
The same depth of breath, the same blemishes on our skin
I wonder, then, why those dimples look so unfamiliar
     when days ago I could claim to have been their founder
Perchance it be I’ve no longer your face in perfect recall
but that countenance is not one I should forget; forgive me
     let me recapture that visage through glossy remembrances
much have I traced our smiles with my fingertips that the ink 
     has erased in the swirls of my hands —ah, I fear
from features too polished have come crude wax models
your eyes, do they grow crueler by my touch? I knew them cold; 
I recognize well that look, from first acquaintance
in later meetings was I greeted with a smile, but I wonder
     had those ever reached your eyes?—they grow not crueler
in optimism did I fail to recognize the scorn in your laugh
Foolish, did I think those expressions happy before?
I must’ve remembered wrong, those sneers you wore.