I found an old photograph
of yours
in a book of mine
Your portrait,
black and white
placed like a bookmark,
between tainted pages,
reminding me
that I had left the story
unfinished
You looked like
a delicate dream
that had realized
it was just a dream,
a void, caught in the net of reality
I read a few pages
and thought it was absurd
to read the same story
again.
