lost time

The memories hurt my stomach.

The future is fear.

The past is pain.

The present slowly ticks away

as I fight between the two realities:

walk away and forward

or stay and let it consume me.

 

The past is safe.

Will I ever relax again

if I leave?

Will I ever be calm?

How can I be?

 

I can’t pretend that nothing’s

changed.

We’re not the same people

despite how badly I want everything

to be frozen in time.

I’m living a dream, a memory.

 

I’m afraid to be put under

anesthesia.

There’s that small panic

that I might never wake up.

 

We know the ending of our stories.

But we panic, refuse to accept.

The same way I refuse to accept

that the people from my memories

have changed.

Poetry

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