We cannot relive our memories
We summon them, flashing individual moments before our closed eyes
The images remain the same,
Yet in a way, detached,
The pictures glossed over in a haze
Our eyeglass prescriptions updated.
Our recollections are vivid, but alas,
We can’t repeat the past.
Our days are numbered
Counted off by some invisible hand
God knows by whom.
By some OCD ridden woman perhaps
Tapping her finger to the beat of a millisecond
Making music of her anxieties.
The soft hum of her fan
Fills the space between her and the door.
A door she fears approaching
For she knows that the closer she gets,
The more time will trickle
Each grain representing an eternity
Wasted
On the rhythm of her memories