this is my photograph of you.

He rolls his cigarette paper

and looks at me like he means it.

"No."

"Okay. I won't."

He doesn't want his picture to be taken,

it's fine.

I've engraved him in my heart already.

But loving a writer is worse than

loving a photographer—

for a man who doesn't want his picture to be taken.

For all I know, he's hidden on every page,

between every letter I carved with my pen.

This portrait might take longer to develop than a Polaroid,

but it won't fade with time.

And I can do it without him even noticing.

He can't object; no one else would know it,

which is probably why he just silently

blows the smoke out.

If this poem found a home in your heart, I would be grateful for a ❤️, a few words in the comments, or even a small tip here or on Ko-fi. Every kindness helps me continue weaving stories and verses from the quiet corners of the woods.

Should you wish for a poem written especially for you, you can commission one here.

— Imola