I rack my memories to give me a hint.
Running, sleeping, working, I see bits of you and me everywhere. The song that brought me to you, temple bells, hot coffee, pens and papers never used.
In your arms, was I so much in awe of the lilting flavors of lust,
That I was blind to the the bright-orange flames of parting?
Perhaps I knew that if I turned to see,
You would be looking at a road that was not mine
They say perception is but interwoven memories
If my reality is a memory, can we build memories to create truth?
When I trace your footsteps, will I find you?
Or was the you that I knew another's memory?
No comments:
Post a Comment