Polaroid Edge

Dust motes dance in the shaft of light

as I paw through these years of bills,

a deed for a car I never drove,

then this.

A stiff rectangle,

faded, yellow at the edges,

the chemicals blurring

the faces to soft smudges.

Two backs.

One hand,

just barely

brushing the other's sleeve.

A quiet, almost touch,

caught flat.

The silence of it,

thick and warm

like breath in a closed room,

settles on my skin.

I didn't need to see this.

Didn't need

to remember

the way air hung

between them.