Machinery of Lost Memories ~

Machinery of Lost Memories ~
Where are the memories made that aren’t kept? 
What fantastical machinery constructs them
fashions from newly grown tendrils 
or strands of a past time and place
and stamps them;
no longer needed, 
Where are these cancelled ones?
I made them and lost them and sometimes I gaze at a fragment
run my thumb over it and remember
just for a moment….
It would have been so easy to pass by her,
to miss her in the greyness of the rain and the fading light,
to avert eyes in a kind of muddled panicky “don’t know how to if i should stop is it safe don’t know just keep walking” way,
the city sidewalk reaction we are all schooled in unconsciously.
But the way she sat slowed me
with her silent face raised to the sky 
as if she was waiting for the drenching
to douse the fire within her.
Was it mist or steam shimmering from her skin?
And I half held out my hand
and let it hang there for long seconds
clumsy in the wet and with my bangs hung over my eyes
I don’t know if she saw me…
But the fever in her eyes gleamed red and hot
like banked coals
and even after I walked away
their light hung in front of me like the residue after a camera flash.
And I felt her steam cooling as it rose from my hand
and thinned,
disappearing into the machinery of lost memories.
The rain closed in around me as I kept walking….

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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