Amelia James Poetry

They say pictures are worth a thousand words,
but no one warns you what they sound like
when the room is quiet
and you’re the only one left holding them.

I found us again, a photo album long locked away
thirteen years tucked inside
a pixelated smile,
a sweatshirt you used to borrow,
a face I used to call home.

And for a moment—
it all flooded back.
Not the pain,
but the realness.
The proof.
That it wasn’t imagined.
That I didn’t make it up
because I was lonely
or dramatic
or “too much.”

No—
this happened.
You looked at me like that.
We laughed in that car.
You made promises with your eyes
and I memorized every one.

These photos are artifacts
from a life I had to bury
just to keep breathing.
But now—
now they’re not ruins.
They’re reclamation.

This is my face,
in love.
This is my body,
before it learned to brace for impact.
This is my joy,
unfiltered,
unguarded,
undeniably mine.

You don’t live here anymore.
But I do.
And today,
I take it back.

This isn’t your story now.
It’s my proof.
That love lived here.
And so did I.


-Amelia James