I dislike the photographs,
layers of lying light, the silver halide crystals stirred into chemical lies memory is not this.

Where is the cyan, magenta, yellow,
that show the maps you traced in the sand? or how much you loved custard and hiking, and birds, and us?

The process fails - it omits the salt-sharp taste of the surf,
the sweet tang of strawberry wax,
your tight grip on the board.

Bleach fixes nothing - the dyes can't Unbury you, animate you No capture recalls how you steadied my bike,
how your finger wagged, silly and stern,
how you told the nurses, “Don’t touch.”
(They left your beard - a small rebellion)

The lightning in your hyperchromatic eyes -
Dog walk mornings, horseback afternoons,
your hand cutting the sea as you kiteboarded close —
gone, gone, gone.

Silver turns to color that lies:
cyan for reds, magenta for greens,
yellow for blues. None of it you.
None of it true.

A final wash seals you into permanence but you've faded into hollow absence.

With Love,

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