for me the oldest
ones have dropped the
crispness of black and white
turned to gray shapes
that drift through fog
faces distorted drained pale
times of day forgotten
the lack of light
nothing that awful
nothing that wonderful
as pigments fade
more than feelings
though there’s one I remember
where I can’t see the look
of the one that says
nobody loves you
so I just barely feel
the white-hot hurt
that burnt me
black inside