The drawer gave up its secret

The drawer gave up its secret,

a faded blue book.

My face, there, staring back,

a flat, dull look.

Four years, a ghost in gloss,

captured under harsh light.

My jaw too square, a loss

of animation, drained of all bright.

The corner, lifted, yellowed,

a crosshatch, almost torn.

This person, so shallow,

a stranger, newly born

of official paper, stiff and hallowed.

My living hand, tracing the edge,

feels the pulse in my wrist,

a sudden, soft, living pledge.

This flat, cold image missed

the shifting, breathing person, on this ledge.