Snapshots

Snapshots

I've scribbled your name
On park benches where the rain washes the blackness
Into bitter silence.
It's been twenty years--
And the same pictures of you are there.

You're the musician with the cowbell
The player in the band who never got his chance
in the limelight.
The boy who needed a coat
The man who wanted a wife.

The camera lies.
I could hold those pictures for years
And look at them and smile.
If only we were older--
If only we had loved more deeply.

I hate that there are no words between us.