His eyes remain frozen in time, staring at the portrait of his beloved.
His mouth opens, then settles to close, knowing that he could never form a poem befitting for such beauty and grace presented by the photograph.
Plenty of people laughed at him, asking, mocking,
"A poet? You can't even write poems!"
Naturally, a poet without a muse cannot write anything, the same goes for Leonard.
However, while staring at the picteresque sight, he felt that he could at least awaken what lies dormant within his soul.
_
[Sooner or later, you'll forget that person, just as how you have forgotten them all.]