You are three inches tall,

smiling from the frame. One single second

that takes over many more, captured trying

to trap those feelings for all time. They may grow dusty

but are still found underneath,

printed in memory.



You are a signature,

resting on the page. A sketchy scribble,

proving you touched this sheet one time, scrawled in an instant

we wanted to remember. Ink may fade,

but the shapes are always

inscribed in my memory.



You are laughing,

a vision on the screen. A sound encoded 

in the pits of DVDs, filming a moment

that we wanted to recall. An imitation

that’s so convincing I forget

it’s just a memory.



You are tokens

of assorted points in time we spent together -

thinking they would never end - securing memories,

fragile as gold leaves beaten thin, yet far more precious.

It looks like now they’re all I have

to help my memory.



You are eighteen,

the world is your red carpet ready for you

to fulfil your aspirations. Then one moment,

which I wish I could forget, stole everything and

ensures they’ll be forever dreams 

of a memory. 



A memory.



You are a memory.

The photos and mementos all spread out in front of me

are a lifetime: 

many moments, many memories of a young man.

Immortalised at eighteen.

In my memory.