Some memories aren’t memories anymore, just things I know happened
which makes me start to doubt them.
I’m reciting a story of someone from the past pretending to be me.
I’m not anchored to anything.
I never existed.
Chair scraping dusty concrete floor
Burnt jittery coffee
I’m not here long
Fading into scenery
Biting cacophony of wooden chair legs
Aggressive atonal symphony
Sweeping the dry floor
Trying to sweep me away faster
Why no, I don’t
“You don’t remember me, but”
No but, I just don’t remember you.
“You probably don’t remember me.”
Are you that worth remembering? I doubt it.
“I bet you don’t remember me.”
Perhaps I forgot you because you’re an asshole.
“Do you remember me?”
Sorry, I live in the moment; you’re from the past
Your insatiable lust for poetry compels you to click this daisy: