Spinning the minutes
over and over,
the words spiraling
into such nonsense,
into what you
wished you’d said,
that truth blends
with desire,
and I have no idea
what really happened anymore.

I’m an obsesser,
an over-thinker
to the point of disaster.
I watch the moments
tumble around,
clothes spinning
in a dryer,
memories melding
with what I wanted to say,
and I’m lost.

This is why
I don’t know
if what we had
was ever real.
This is why
I can’t give up
and let go.

It’s the spinning
and mixing
which makes remembering
and forgetting
so completely impossible
because I’m always
spinning the moments,
tossing them up,
and reforming them.
Instead of finding clarity,
I only find fabrication,
faces of what
I think I know
instead of
what is real.




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