Aperture, you explain, is the amount of light

allowed to fall onto the camera lens,

 

you examine the picture in my hand, point out the shadow

that seeps into all the photo’s corners and touches

 

the dust-filtered light within the center, say it creates

the atmosphere of a distance in time.

 

Your fingers guide my eyes across the film, reveal

the mistakes in timing-

the blur was intentional, to give that feel of loss

​

of connection. The photo is of our old bedroom.

A bunk bed set sits on the left side of the room,

 

the top one was always yours, you said

you liked the feel of floating through night.

 

I always kept the night-light on, trying to

defeat your journey across without me.

 

Bathed us both in sunshine, burnt us

brown, to hold you to me.

 

An opening in my side where

you eventually crawled out.