He stood there gazing at the canvas, now stroked with gentle marks of pastels.
I stood there, his back to me, wondering whatever he's wondering about.
The colors formed in such a way that held a face, one that I did not recognize.
It's beautiful, I say.
Yes, she was, he replies with a hint of longing.
YOU ARE READING
Polaroids Lost in Time
PoetryOriginal poems, short stories and lost polaroids. Some sad and others bittersweet.
