and the photo I took
falls out, a shiny black
and white, your eyes
squinted, nearly shut,
camera held entirely
too close.
I had tried
to fill the frame
with your face,
to create a likeness
I could carry
to another town,
too far gone
to ever leave you.
I am not sad
I can’t see the blue
of your iris,
that a shadow obscures
the mole on your cheek,
that your gentle ears
have disappeared.
I’m compelled, instead,
to remember, to fill in
all that a photo
leaves out. I turn
the picture over,
finding you’ve written,
don’t
forget me. The ink
looped and arced, faintly
there, yet I see
your unmistakable hand
shaping each slim letter,
as if you understood
it would be your words
that would carry you
to the surface
of my otherwise empty
aperture. Don’t forget
me. How could I
when you make it so
we are no longer
apart?
Photo by Vitaliy Shevchenko on Unsplash
