I remember
those days when there would be a fleeting glimpse of childhood in your eyes
telling us stories about how you grew up learning to be independent yet obedient
disregarding the one time you found a treasure that you wanted to be yours
lost it- expecting a reprimand, a lecture, disappointment, anything
yet when you think back the rest of the memory escapes you

The mind is a machine
once experiences are made it chooses whether they are remembered or forgotten
why would one want to forget?
to forget is to empty oneself of the guilt tides that have submerged the body in fear
of repetition
because human beings innately yearn for what has not been said or done before
"New and novel" - not stories, but our own puzzle creations that have been written by us and for us
with all the plot twists and character tropes interwoven perfectly together


But memories are what hold
written in invisible ink
etched in our hearts once the pages have been ripped and worn and faded
for our hearts cannot disintegrate like books - the "novel" lives on in our souls
waiting to come out at the exactly 12:09am
and then tears


for you, for your childhood, that, I didn't realize until now,
was still clinging onto the mind which had lost its capability to write with life's invisible ink
eventually succumbing to the embers of the fire on that cold winter day