lost memories lane

there’s something tragic

about forgetting

isn’t there?

when we spend hours

accumulating all these memories

of ourselves and other people

of moments

nuances

stories that make us

who we are

forgetting is not always

a breath we did not know

we had been holding in

sometimes forgetting hurts

stings when you go

to revisit a moment

only to have lost it

in time

the sting lingers

until

you forget it too

that’s how pieces of you

fall away

over the years

and even as I write this

I wonder

how much I’ve already

lost.

on the last ride home

as we drive by

I can see

all the lit

and unlit

porches

where we’ve neglected

to kiss

cupboard ghost

I didn’t recall

or even think of him

until –

 

blissfully lost

in current events

current hurts

and dreams

 

–     there

He was

 

Staring quietly

from the cupboard

 

his name

scratched in

permanent ink

on the jar

 

and I think I saw

again

that weak face

uncomfortable with

wearing guilt

 

He was not even

so dear to me

not knowingly

until after –

 

trapped in the safety

of knowing nothing

but the warmth of

his arms

and tenderness

 

–     He was torn

from me

 

and I thought

I could put him away

then

 

but sometimes

you keep

in the littlest ways

whispers

of ghosts

 

even if it hurts

to see them

what memory is

some scars

never fade

past a pale pink:

your inner elbow

on the back of your thigh

 

and

above your lip

crest visible

always

 

if only you could

transpose all these

and weave them

into the pages

of a story

more easily read

by people you love

or could love

 

press between the pages:

 

thorns from those roses

growing up

in a garden

of white pebbles

 

places in which

your skin has shifted

to let you go

 

and

an absent shard from

the hand which trembles

too easily

when angry

 

and this could be the way

others will know

who you are

 

and this could be

the way

you never forget

travels

in some senses

I’m no good

with the unfamiliar

I’m no good

with the strange

cities that are bare

And make an oddity

Of me

 

places I get lost in

words I don’t understand

gestures that feel wrong

out of sync

always a little behind

 

But I am more alive

with the unfamiliar

I am more real

when I know

it’s all a hazy dream

And I can be anyone

but me

 

because

strangers are kind

in a way people I love

forget

and are more

capable of joy

 

And I wish I could stay

so unknown

so transient

 

where there is uncertainty

in every footstep

and danger

in every breath

 

because

I learn how

to be good when

I’m anyone

but me