Portraiture is interesting. Are they really me?

Self portrait taken from a mobile phone

There is nothing of me here: only
response and request; times and places;
an odd draft of something, long out of date.

I do not keep everything I should; you
are long lost, even that photograph of us with
the Tyne bridges glowing. It is years old now. And gone.

Anything here is loose in its understanding.
I do not keep sent messages, only those
received. I am blameless, and absent;

a bundle of thoughts towards me
that almost converge, except meaning
is lost. Ah, but there, see? A photo, of me in red.

I am trying to find my way from a field to
somewhere. I don't recall where from,
or my escape.