Not Things That Lived

But things that were written down.
A graceful storyteller,
A painter of characters

Changing with the light, could tell
Us as if we were alive.
You would see, hear, or read us,

And think of people, and dwell
Deeply on their imagined lives
And find us satisfying,

Maybe even poetic.
We would still be only signs—
Bits, pixels, audio waves,

Electromagnetism
Of sundry kinds—not alive.
That fly on your arm’s alive,

And now it’s tickling the hairs
Along the nape of your neck,
While you try wave it off

Or slap at it futilely.
Can you not love us for not
Being hard to get rid of?