Another year is over.
Every year that passes, I remember less of you.
I forget things.
Your smile. Your touch.
Your name.
All that’s left is a picture that’s been washed out from the sun.
On the back is a mass of scribbles.
Like someone scratched something out.
A name? A date? A place?
Who were you?
What happened?
Where did you go?
And what did you mean to me?
“It’s a photo of you,” says the doctor.
I feel the scar along the side of my head.
Then who am I?
And who was I before you did this?