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
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