In the tiny portrait of your face
you offered for consumption,
I see shadows cast
by solitary lamp
in your dinghy room.
On your left there
the dinky lens
has caught the edge
of a tattered chair.
Behind you some books
shelved above an empty bed.

In your little portrait
proffered in the hopes of love;
like countless others
in their own tiny place.
I shall remember your little room
when time has erased your face