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,
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.