Picture Perfect

The black and white photographs
torn down the middle
with dog-eared corners
The people in them
are lies frozen in time
These tokens of life's past
are being stuffed in a box
This box will remain
under my bed
collecting the
dust of time
But when I need
to remember
the healed scars
the stolen secrets
When I need to recall
where I'm from
where I've been
the box will come out
if only for a moment
but it'll always be there
with forgotten thoughts
that hang in the air
like lingering ghosts