A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words

I miss him tonight.
I miss the way we used to laugh, I miss our jokes, I miss our passion.
I saw this TV show tonight, a murder-mystery type-thing, which revolved around a strip of pictures a couple had had done together. You know those little photo-booth things that they have at subways and movie theaters and stuff? Like those. (Why is it that couples always feel compelled to take them? Well, except for the fact that they're funny and adorable and sweet and a concrete visual image of us as an Us.) I still have ours. They're adorable. I'm sadisitically looking at them right now, in fact. The first Christmas we were together, I blew one of them up and framed it, one for me, and one for him. I hope he still has his. The one I framed is not my favorite one, tho. My favorite one is the last one. I'm smiling demurely at the camera, while he's holding on from behind and kissing me on the cheek. My face is sweet and innocent, but my fist is in the picture, the only picture with a fist, and I'm clenching it for dear life. I don't remember whether the kiss was 'planned' or not, but knowing him, I bet it wasn't. I like to think it wasn't. He liked to surprise me, with anything. And I was clenching my fist for dear life because the touch of his lips on my face was still new to me then, still magical. Actually, I think it was always magical.
We look so happy in those pictures. The last one, in particular, is a picture of a girl with a joyous secret. She has his love, and no one else does, and she's not telling anyone . . . but her happiness is sparkling out of her eyes.
Where did that girl go?
What happened to us?