Above my window are pinned a mess of letters, photos, and scraps of art I’ve collected over the years.

All from past lovers and friends. Little notes, drawings of faces and bodies. The letters span random instances; ‘…hello… ‘…remember when…’…can’t wait to…’…someday , after…’ My own paintings mingle with them: layers of paper like decomposing leaves - stuck to the wall for analysis - insects needled under glass

Seeing them, I remember voices, cloth and skin. Questions: unasked, but loud.

Always, eyes look out from the ink and paint. Little implants of souls.

Memories mirrored through the hazy lens of time. (I think I heard that last line from somewhere).

Who are they? I suppose I only ask this question to answer another: Who am I?