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  • Poe


Memories become the fire that ignites the passion of my desires as it

sets ablaze my mortal soul, the way it would on my funeral pyre.

What is a memory?

Isn't it a fragment of my brain elongated?

Stretched? Pulled?

A string held longer, tighter, firmer?

Until my fingernails dig deep within the depths of my palms

longer, tighter, firmer.

Until red marks all over my sweaty palms.

Until each mark turns into wounds, wounds into scars.


Each scar shaped like a shooting star

Born from the collision of the present and the past.

And I carry within the palm of my hands, fragments of touches long lost in faraway lands.

What is a memory?

Isn't it the moon shining from the window of my bedroom?

As its light slantly glimmers over my desk,

under the shine of which I stand,

knowing I can never hold its source again within my hands.

With every moon phase, the light of which slowly fades,

Is that what a memory is? Something, my brain will slowly erase.

What is a memory?

Is it not the sand on the beach slipping through my fingers?

Is it, not the sea waves retreating from the sea shore as it makes a grating roar?

Is it a sweet silent escape at the back of my head?

Glances as paintings flash by in hazy haste.

Or is the recapitulation of the eventual prophesied end?

Is it the beginning of a movie thoroughly enjoyed?

Or the end of a movie I was never prepared for?

A memory

is silent when gone.

Words are no longer found as emptiness fills up the space.

Lost are the touches of embrace

Only for me to find peace in its nothingness,

I am an English Literature Major who finds solace in writing. - @poet_ific

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Published in issue 5


Published in issue 5


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