19 Jun 2014

One hundred years bc.

They pretend these scarlet memories are regret
Or a lament
They disguise them as passion or

How long it takes to remember these
Places and rhymes and broken hearts and broken bones
As they are stored
In small pockets or dusty corners
Every analogue moment erased by its digital opposite

Unless you write this shit down
It is cigarette smoke lost in a soft July kiss
Summer rain making fools of us