You will not remember me -
don't worry, while I may now
hold your brain as so many
pulls of sensation, rough-shod
scenes in familiar places, or
smells, should you smell
with me - still able to animate them,
those will be gone, photographs
can be burnt, letters erased and
flowers made into drain water, and only
remain the too-good memories,
that hurt your stomach a little,
press crab-hands into your throat nerves
a little less every other week,
as well as the too bad ones
that friends hear about in the brief
sketches, and eyes flash strangely, turning
all of the me-stories into a tiny pill:
with dimensions, at least, you
can touch and measure
and save the limp associations
- found in stupid objects, name-games
nothing in between.
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