Developed

I was looking for my passport in the box

under the stacks of old rent slips.

I found a face behind the locks

with a grin and beer-wet lips.

I’m twenty-two and the sun is high,

my eyes haven't learned how to squint.

It’s a bright and uncomplicated lie

preserved in a glossy print.

There’s a thumbprint smudge of grease

right across the bridge of my nose.

I wish I’d left that version in peace

before the shutter decided to close.