How to (Not) Forget

Forever in a cube:
a lonely square on the snow-crusted peak
of nowhere,
with words for solace,
and thoughts to sustain
whatever living creature yet nests
within the rise and fall of my ribs.

Palms drip;
imagined clocks tick.
Time rolls intangible.
By breaths, I chronicle—
a moment, an hour;
a day, a single degree.
Sameness drives the brush strokes together,
and the paints on this canvas
smear into one brown blob.

Where have they gone?
The people.
Scurried back to normalcy?
Dropping amnesia-inducing pills,
to forget all but the nectar taste
of gratification:
that wholesale consumption of the self?

Somewhere here
exists the real—
within this nothingness of space-time.
It is love
and it is hope
and it does not forget.
It longs and yearns
and bellows in the silence.

It is me.
And I am it.

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