#memoriesofself

Memories unsung, glitters in glass refracting from a point of nothing; Moments unstuck from their specialness each and every unique part of erased.

Memories blown to shape sparks of sound glistening and grayish— already fading already being made unreal, even in the exact moment they are made.

What do I remember of rain, sunshine? Days on lakes, nights under fireflies? Of faces I once recognized voices I once trusted, persons depersonalized places displaced; What do I remember of Space? Touch? If I could only feel it again I’d know for sure if it was ever real.

A figure in the mirage gazing back at me, a silhouette scene haze is all that remains of my memories; Gas and pain fragments of my life stains on a translucent frame waiting to evaporate.

What do I remember of myself? A frightened doll unsewn without a master to make me act—to make me real

In a storm the sky cleans itself— no more memories no more doubts holding it down, but the sky forgets who it is and the rain repeats all over again all over me, in retrospective shame.

But I can’t remember how to cry or how to sing.

Who I am cannot last.