Between the Shots

Staring at a picture framed by harsh light,

the face I barely know stares back at me.

Contours made stark, shadows drawn tight,

but my smile feels borrowed, just not quite free.

In the queue for departure, the world moves slow,

a parade of strangers with stories untold.

I look down at my hands, still soft as the snow,

even as time tugs at me, stubborn and bold.

Where are the years that folded and swayed?

The lines of laughter, the time lost in haste?

I trace a reflection where youth used to play,

searching for comfort in something misplaced.

Each click of the shutter steals pieces away,

but I carry the light that’s softening grace.