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Poem

Greek, without imagination.
What a beautiful word,
A beautiful word for the condition that plagues my soul,
As I lie awake at night
As I try to dream
As I cry.

Daring myself to remember
The faces of those I have lost,
The way their eyes gleamed
The way their voices whispered
The way their arms embraced
The way their scent lingered
The way their dinners tasted -
But alas it is gone

I only know I am thinking of such things
but I don’t have the visual imagery to go along side it.
Is it not deserved
Is there a way to get them back
To have them like I did in that moment
To have them restored

It is hardest when you are grieving
Knowing that others may always have their memories
So do I, but I don’t think it is the same
Instead I take to a camera
I see the curve of their lips
Their hair framing their face
The way their eyes shone,

I hold it close
Taking in every detail like I did originally
When it was captured
I try to immortalise the image in my head
But once I look away, its gone.
Like it was never there at all,
Never mine to look at in the first place
Floating away
Like a petal on a stream
Or how a feather takes to the air

I look back then
At the picture before me
My mind at ease once again with their features
And then finally I can rest,
Someday I may be ready to move on

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