Just a Picture of You

You brought out—or ignited—something undefinable in me.
Even now, I still don’t know what it was, whether it was good or bad
Or just different. But I know I liked it. Still do.

Back then I thought I loved you. And I don’t think I was entirely wrong.
At least, I loved the feelings you brought out in me:
Excitement, adventure, unpredictability, wild, instinctive pleasure,
All the old-fashioned notions of romance.
And then (of course) there was a visceral passion.
Perhaps that’s gone now, but I was surprised to find
That just seeing a picture of you
Evoked an instant alertness in me,
Like a dog poising just a moment,
Surveying its living target,
Just before it gives chase.

What does this mean? What should I do with it?
Should I strive to understand these feelings or
Just try to let them go?

I feel they are a part of me, so I wish dearly to hang on,
As I do with all the integral parts of my past,
Trouble though they may prove to be.
And, in the end, I let them go a little at a time.
Like desperate, clutching fingers hanging to a ledge,
Sequentially pried free by a cartoonish villain.

And yet, some pictures linger.
Reproduced…
Retouched, perhaps…
Buried in the subconscious,
Alive.