I used to keep looking for your face in the photos you didn't take;
though I pointed the lens at you.
And you're going to tell me to stop, just like you always did.
The reflection you can't melt into isn't what sounds right for you, right now.
Time keeps passing, you'll keep laughing, but I'm ready right now.

And when you unpacked your bags, was it sad?
Saying goodbye to the dreams you had, scorning the road where it differs from memory.
Tree-hedges untrimmed and tangling the lines those high-eyes once followed when you were wondering what the hell I was taking a photo of.
And now those moments are lost and gone; other than a snapshot reflection.
And if you hate it so much, why do you keep yourself drawing maps that always wrap back around and stop?