It’s as though you were a time traveler,
showing up in my life unexpectedly
and then leaving, again and again.
The cat in the photograph is dead now,
as are the flowers in the vase,
the bird in the tree outside the window.
It’s not that I want them to be absent,
or that they did. They had no say in the matter,
no more than I might, stranded here forever.
The picture is as old as my memories of times,
so they and I have no hope for resurrection.
Unless, of course, you bring them back with you.