The photograph is curled with age,
Its corners bent, its ink still fades.
Yet when I hold it, I still see,
A frozen glimpse of what was me.

A boy who ran with winds so free,
Barefoot across the endless sea,
His laughter carved into the air,
A heart unburdened, light and rare.

Beside him stands a younger man,
His father’s hands, his guiding plan.
The sky was bright, the world stood wide,
No fear, no doubt, no need to hide.

Yet now the man is dust and light,
A memory woven into night.
And I, the boy, am older now,
With lines that time has carved somehow.

The photograph still tells its tale,
Of love that never once grew pale.
Though time may change the face I see,
Its eyes still whisper, “You are me.”