Time moves fast, like the lines in the foreground of this worn image, which is a treasure I found buried in another's memory book.
People love you and they loose you, even if you are still in their life.
You staple the moment to your memory, to your heart, to the page accompanied by your handwritten mark.
The moment is stuck in time, like the hands on a clock. So much has been lost as the world ticks forward: you, the everyday newspapers and the suits; all are mere ghosts now.
I wish I knew your young round face, more debonair than weary. And yet, I believe I do know it, in a space time cannot reach.