When a memory becomes a photograph, a ghost escapes the liturgy, to wield a power over me. That vision moves with me—one step, two steps in time— yet it represents a feeling that's no longer mine. A video only in my head, while a wraith sings: "that someone is dead."

I dance like silk sheets tied in someone's arms; especially well for a skeleton with bones for legs and no brain in his head.

And yet, I can't even place that song. The rhythm is silent now, a bygone artifact blurred by the quiet hum of a life moved on.

Ultimately, this heart is just a snapshot of time. Time no longer here. A moment gone and passed. With thanks be too late, you can only raise your glass. A picture destined to die in the flames, tended to, only by me.