The image of that secret smile that my memory holds
has waxed and waned as I’ve grown old
and though I still can hear the sounds and see the sights
they are blurred and faint, for I have new memories
and new dreams. (It just seems right…)
that when I meet you I should know where we last met
and how long ago.
It’s just polite
to ask ‘How are you?’
and then the image of your face is engraved on my mind
and each new engraving distorts the older ones;
like, at night, when you close your eyes and
pictures flash in front of you like slides
I just know that at some point, I’ll see your face, your eyes; and remember the old engraving
the faded painting
of your secret smile.
Matthew Scholes
The Adventurers 