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Memory


You cannot hold it
the way that it was.
Ice cold water down the back
is not so
shocking
when you don’t get wet.

Enhance it,
throw in some adjectives
a pinch of rhyme
stir in some rhythm,
but you won’t get it
the way that it was.

It won’t get you
the way that it did.

Things can shrink
when you hold them,
your hand
becomes a fist.
Not everything makes
the trip.

Pain
slips through fingers
like fear
but happiness clings.
Its all lighter
than air
and the skull-cup
brims.

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