I see a photo of you and you are grotesque, you are the come hither look that invites you to cross the street, you are the open legs that speaks of rendezvous that last longer than minutes, you are the lips bathed in blood that beg to wreck my skin, you are hair in ash that stays in my hand while I shout for you to stay. 

I see a photo of you and sadly you are not mine because we never reached the point of leaving our fingerprints in our crimes, we never got to tell our last names but your photos always remain, where I see your muscles and remember the heat of summer that was the scent of your neck. 

I see the half-smile and I have the cold of your lips so distant from my eyes that they are a star, I see your body and I remember that nothing could hold your soul. 

And yes, I see your photo as if it was a sin, as if I was 13 and I was learning to know myself, I look and I look and I look and I look as if you were a wanted poster. 

Because I seek, I seek to remember your nails that left red lines on my hands, I seek to see the eyelashes that were wishes in the air of a balcony, I seek the cold nose that you hid in a scarf that wasn’t yours, nor mine, nor anyone's, I look for your eyes, that until this day are the colour in which I dream, every time that your photo isn’t enough to miss you. 

TA.