Photographs

Black and white photographs line
his stone walls, a wallpaper of grey smiles.
He had memorized each one, tracing the lines
of limbs with his dusty forefinger, smiling softly at
the moments that he had captured and was now allowed to keep.
Always, he saved his favorite picture for last –
to savor like one savors the time spent in a lover’s arms.
A head was tossed to the grey heavens above, pulling
the white rays of light to a flawless porcelain visage.
He didn’t remember what color her eyes had been
– were they grey? Or was it green?
but they hypnotized him for hours at a time, peering
into his own eyes from beneath darkened lashes, seeming
to whisper naughty secrets into his brain.
The sharp angles her limbs had taken on
somehow accentuated her slender figure, just as the
dirt smudged across her pale cheek showed the beautiful
cut of her high cheekbones.
Oh, how he longed to caress them again.
He thought that he might have been able to love her someday,
but she tried to run like the others and he
had to catch her so he could touch her
– so he could love her –
but she was ready with the men in blue, so she had to
die like the rest and now all he has are
the pictures in his cell for company.

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