CALL ME BELOVED

there are photographs languishing on my hard drive,
folders hidden within folders placed well out of sight.
it’s a cache of evidence, proof of an older self
that I’ve already forgotten – hairstyles and facial hair
attempted and long abandoned, the expressions on my face eerily foreign.

it’s written in the corners of my mouth, the strange twist
of reckless happiness that I haven’t felt since then,
that all encompassing shroud that the weary years
have evaporated from my life like sun burning through mist.

it’s a stranger I’m staring at, quickly rattling off discrepancies
as if to prove it to myself – no, it isn’t me, it’s just
a borrowed posture – no-one would call my eyes haunting,
staring through the lens and through time, to me in this chair.

I couldn’t have known on that night, standing in the sand
while my shirt stretched down around my neck,
soaked and heavy from the ocean – I didn’t plan this –
that this picture would find me here tonight, a testimony
burning through the screen, quietly accusing me
of letting the years erode me down like those waves
beating against the shore. it isn’t something I would do.

but I see it written all over me, in the sand plastered
up my calves, dangling off my outstretched fingers –
whispering you’ve lost it for both of us.
you cannot apologize to a photograph, and regardless,
forgiving yourself is hard to do.