I can never remember anything
Anemoia: nostalgia for a time you’ve never known.
.
.
Sometimes, I feel I am reaching
into the past. Blindly grasping
darkness. Empty handfuls hope
to touch times which never last.
.
.
I shake as I seek the comfort
of my mother’s hand. Slice open my palm
on not fingers, but a sharp tongue.
Cowering like a scared dog, too scared
Not to lash out. To trust.
.
.
When I bleed my mind is red and numb,
And I wish that my blood was gloss, and I could
Pour it over my memory like a photograph,
Or glass! Red glass like a church window.
Framing each memory, over my eyes the way
I used to hold quality street wrappers to them.
And I’d dye the world red. It was better then.
.
.
Quality street wrappers. 3D glasses. Hope. Hope.
And cinemas. I remember I was happy. Running
Up and down over sofa cushion hurdles.
I remember I was happy. Is it real or red?
.
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I retreat back to reality. To escape the fear
Of seeing through the filter. The silent gasps
Of lonely tears. A half-drunk cup of tea.
The cold light from my laptop screen.
.
.
I’m back and I can’t remember. I’ll write instead.
