The piano was more difficult to play now, certain chords would go missing….

The same with photographs. Some faces were familiar…others were blackened with ash and she didn’t know them…

Some days she felt like everything was good. She really had a hold on things.

Other days, she would be given a journal

And expected to write…

But the pages were burning

The words were missing…

The safest place was the window on those days.

To just sit and look outside….

She could remember some things…

But it was all the new faces that frightened her.

The new town….

Other days she would work on her next detective novel…

But she always felt, trapped,inside a burning house

And couldn’t shake the feeling,time was running out.

But then, she had felt like this since her early twenties.

Now she was…she was…


I have libraries
Of words
I have summers
Of memory
I have pages
And ink
That I’m afraid
I don’t
And the summers
They blurr
And the books
Well,I forget.

I have ink
Under my skin
But I couldn’t
Recall or
Tell you
The feeling of the needle
Putting it there

Skin on skin
Matching me.
Weaved into memory…

I don’t think
I could ever
Un-feel You

I could remember.