Between you and me,

I kiss your photograph

when I pass,

the one on my phone

or the ones in frames

or behind glass.


I do it secretly

so no one else

can see,

just between

you and me.



I blow a kiss

from my palm,

hoping it

will reach you

wherever you are,

a mere spiritual

world away

or maybe so

not quite far.


Some days,

I hold things

which were yours,

try and sense

the feel of you,

the scent of you

within the cloth

or book or other things,

holding tight to see

what comes or what

you may bring.


There is a part of me

that's forever lost,

part of me

that has a hole,

a scar, a wounded

heart and mind;

but also there are

parts of you which

none can take,

the link of memories,

the genetic hold

within me still,

your sound of voice,

the way you were

and stood, joked,

laughed or looked,

that picture of you

within my mind,

which none can see.


I kiss your picture

when I pass, secretly,

between you and me.

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