Pinhole Image

Michaela Mayer

i hold a grey snapshot, negative space
in the shape of your body: where once
you stood, now a nimbus of silver halide
crystals, an aching void. weeks ago

you told me you needed space
to process intimacy, how it triggers
you—the ache lessened but not
gone, its luminous weight what gives

pause to plaintiveness. still, you are
the shape of absence, a hole in the paper
of our joint lives, curling into yourself.
i grasp to flatten the edges and my fingers

fall through. i think of you holding me,
that day in your bed, your fingers laced
with mine. that image blazed by sun
coming through the little aperture, fixed

on paper forever: our grainy picture
etched in chemicals laced with gelatin,
and how dear you are, my friend,
my friend, my dearest, dazzling friend.