The only photo I have of you
is mental and untrue,
if every time our memories surface
a piece of you is warped for nostalgia’s sake
eventually, there will be a stranger in my head.
I am the world’s biggest hypocrite
I begged you to be Orpheus if he had more self-discipline
yet here I am, fingers curled around knowledge already known
consequences already laid out, folded
into neat little piles-
a ritual performed with the righteousness
of doing laundry on a Sunday.
But, if the lover in my head is now fiction
there are no domestics;
the laundry machine caught fire
and flames devoured everything we could have claimed to be.
I am coming around to the idea
I miss a thing I never really had.
I have been a surf instructor in NZ, pulled an 'into the wild' and now volunteering in the USA
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