I Can See It Written

You’re a fading image now,
losing pieces, the top half of your head
falls between forgetting and over-
use. 

There was no scent to bind
your pixels in place, no alchemic
burn onto lithographic plate.

All that’s left is a photo from years
ago, the message written by your
hand.  I saw you write it,
I think.

Mnemosyne seems quick
to run off, yet like a tiny dog gnawing,
gnawing, gnawing at the boots
of a passer-by.