A Complicated Thing


Image by Vicki Nunn from Pixabay

Memory is a complicated thing,

a relative to truth,

but not it’s twin.

It creeps onto you shackled with pleasantness,

and sometimes with pain,




and loss.

I can remember a sense of the ones I’ve loved,

how strong and ferocious the love was,

almost a violence of love.

I remember how each time

i started growing distant and stolid,

impassive to their presence,

placid to their reactions,

phlegmatic to a point of breakage.

and whenever I lay my head on the bed of blues,

code-red memories flood me within,

bruising and tearing apart,

what hope’s left.


that complicated being in my life,

relative to my truth,

definitely not it’s twin.

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