There's no pain in a picture. It's all ink and water, indistinct streaks of red or green or glowing light. Of white palm on freckled shoulder, or fleeting moments of contact: blue meets green, black meets white, lips meet lips. There's no pain in a picture; just glossy white paper, furrowed by age or the weather. A tilted wrist, an open mouth, a tangled mess of haloed limbs, inexorable, uncompromising flesh, and teeth like bone or ivory.
There's no pain in a picture, but there's pain in a human. An onlooker. There's pain in the loss of something, and its rediscovery in high definition print. In seeing your crinkled eyes again, your crooked smile, your wide green eyes, which reminded me of your true essence more than any of my thoughts could have. Flesh loves flesh like the spirit loves the spirit, and when you give them both to someone, beating, throbbing heart and soul, you can't expect not to be keeled over, choking at the sight of them.
There's no pain in a picture, and there is no pain in this picture, because you're smiling in it and your hand is in hers, and fairy lights embroider vitality and love into every crevice. I haven't seen you smile like that for a long time.