Young Writers Society

I guess I look alright
in your light,
at the left-hand corner
of an HDR snapshot
from that semester,
with my high-socked legs
tangled in a mess
extending down our backs
to your hands
where you held your notebook
gently.

I watched you,
you,
play with that expansive
lined canvas,
as if skill was some thing
you could whip
around and sling
at will---
talent
wasn’t really talent at all,
but some far-fetched product
of perfection
that I had been blessed with,
by proxy.

the photo wrinkles now---
cracking and flaring faintly
across our faces
like some sun-baked dish
left out too long.
I see gold in the corners
of those eyes,
that danced along their winking pages
watching stories mature to ripeness
and shrink back again
to nothing.

the college-ruled lines of your book
have yellowed as well.
it could be the light,
faint here
now that noon has passed
and I sit remembering…
but these old polaroids
you insisted on,
heavy with plastic,
seem to decay
so quickly.