Photographs

She is vintage.
Black and white, grainy
Photographs sealed away.
Delicate features; almost doll-like,
Form memories out of nothing.

She is stolen,
Like the German Christmas bread.
It took two sets of parents to raise her
Until she was deemed “Perfect.”

She is just a face in an old photo album
mother put up inside the attic.
Gathering dust by day and slowly slipping from
Our memories.

She is that girl you see
Tucked into the armchair at the corner coffee shop.
Her nose forever stuck in a book of poetry.
E.E. Cummings today.

You pause, wondering if you will startle her,
But take the chair beside her anyway.
She casts a wary glance in your direction
mid-page turn, makes sure you’re not a threat,
and continues reading.

You clear your throat,
a quite in-take of breath,
She is startled.

Her eyes are full of questions,
And it breaks your heart.

“Might I buy you a cup of tea
to go with your book, miss?”

You inquire.

A sudden burst of color blooms
Atop her cheeks.

“If you insist, kind gentleman.” is her response.

“Oh, I do.”