Picking Up the Details

Stern revisionists consort with the mind. Memory like ice cream. Melts into a sweet, sticky mess. The angular thrust of rote is softened. Circles. Move us forward. Keep us coming back home.

Contrarians convalesce at the apex of the process. The eyes. The ears. The fingers. Parasites. Still sucking on the dry veins. The Adam. The Eve. Heavy with all the conditions on paradise. The scars on her knees. Telling stories. About how far she's come.

It happened. It was. At least then. It feigned the order. Shuffled the discourse. Worms cut in half. Two worms now instead on just one. The timeline compensates for all of our indiscretions. The doorbell rings. But there's no one there. Not that she can see.

Still, she let's them in. Listens. As they tell their story. The truth is mutable she confesses. Manipulative even. You're not lying. You've just come too soon. I won't be that person until years after you don't care who she has become.

I'll never be better than I am right now. But we both know it'll get much worse.

You are the future. I am the past. But there's the paradox. To ever be you. To come back. To find us. I must be lost.