Photographic evidence is arguing with
My memory, because the latter is not
Quite sure what it remembers.

Words were exchanged, though these
Are used as the basis for idealisation
And tinting with roses, and not
For my insight or contribution
To this world of ours.

My memory is certainly clear
That that is how I used to
Do things; clarity only comes with
Discomfort, disquiet…disaster.
Perhaps then it is my memory
That is the enemy with whom I
Shadow box when I try to believe
I might be capable of some good.

All those happy faces, among which
I am not; all those happy memories,
Of which I do not form a part.
And yet, they form a part of mine,
Making me almost think I might
Care after all. Somehow, my
Hereditary memory made that
Impossible, even though I know
Love was in my heart, somewhere.

I wonder if people would remember
The minutiae of me and my life
If I ever told them? Perhaps I
Do not want to know the answer.

As it happens, I do remember
Very little about her, or what
We said, though I recall
That unwelcome undercurrent
That I wished would take
Hold of both of us. At least
I remember to be ashamed.

04/03/2006

Posted on 04/06/2006
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