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  • When they're gone, are they gone?

    The delicate spoors, the dead, the ghosts who knew us in the flesh, the spoors with whom we did things, who knew our eyes, our certain light, ----'Yes that's her, I'd know her laugh, anywhere,"----who knew our smells not as described but as inhaled, describing a room, a fragrance like an unwomaned drone of scent, who knew our smile, ----'Yes, that's her for sure in that photograph.'----

    Is it photographs only which are left for us when the living go and leave their scented trails?

    It is.

    Most definitely the photographs which were never taken.

    Ours alone, the precious moment, etched, burned into our hearts.

    We are the blind when they leave us.

    Each heartbeat describes a finger on the untaken photo.

    (Photo by Susan, Miami Beach, February 2007)
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