A Compartmentalized List of Memories

May 1, 2018

Taking up a pen of reality, I try to write of you

For my broken hands, reality feels like a hard thing to write because:

One, my memory feels like my hands and
Two, I feel like this

 

Memories of the “far-off” past:

One, a swimming pool;
I’ve drained that one with two poems

 

Memories fairly recent:

One, you inquiring of me about a verse
Two, me saying I would be your friend and you joyfully agreeing
Three, you grabbing my hand and insistently pulling me along (this may be partly imagination)
Four, your insistence for me to dance; I would not
Five, my awful feelings of regret for not doing something that night
Six, you writing a poem about me
Seven, me writing poems about you and you reading one (in reality, probably two)
Eight, you
Nine, you
Ten, still you

Imaginary memories:
One, standing in the hallway, singing a song I said I’d learn for you
Two, hugging you as you sob into my shoulder
Three, bringing you lilies as half joke and half sign of affection
Four, actually agreeing to dance
Five, things somehow going right that night
Six, telling you my heart sometimes feels like it dies because of you
Seven, doing what God told me to do
Eight, listening to my friends
Nine, not being afraid
Ten, probably something else involving you
Eleven, likely the same as ten
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Somehow, not you






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