I have held the memory of you

so often

in the palm of my thoughts

that the image is weather-beat

as creased

as the crows-feet

that stand at the corner of each eye

every time I smile

when I look at it

 

or grimace at it

as I try to forget

that I’ve edited it

omitted everything that could possibly subvert its beauty

 

Truthfully I’ve idealised you into nostalgia

 

Buttered toast and tea in bed

we melted into each other

then lay content

covered in sweat and crumbs

breathlessly admitting

that it was love

 

Though this anamnesis is composed

five or so separate occasions

collaged into something more picturesque

that I can post on to myself

as proof

of whatever I need it to be presently

and presently what I need it to mean

is that it was as good as it seemed

 

objectively

I dissolve into air

your hair falling completely around me

leaving only lips and tongues

hat had waited so long to meet each other

longing has a flavour

and its taste was each other’s skin

I need this to mean the same to you as it does to me

so the whole thing doesn’t seem solipsistic

 

But what use is that now?

as I’ve already played witness in a trail

that has passed its verdict

 

And how imperfect is memory anyway?

A cherry-picker that picks only the most palatable fruits

that imbues the past with present feeling

then presents it as a timeless truth

that clasps hope as closely

as a refugee his only possession

in the belief that it will somehow keep him afloat in unknown waters

it won’t

 

So if I can let go of you now

perhaps

I have a chance at swimming to shore