He stares from the front,
in Edwardian bloomers,
a midnight coat of wrinkles and
a boy’s bowtie that dips to the left.

She stands next to him,
hidden under an enormous ribbon,
drowning in a heavy Sunday dress
with a waist that drops.

He doesn’t reach for her,
instead, he puts his hand behind
his back as if this act will
break the twin connection.

I don’t know this girl frozen
in age spots but I love the woman
who lived her life. The other,
I know only from this moment.

He lives on stained paper
from decades of yesterdays,
a fading reminder of
a part of you I didn’t know.

Susan Stone