This unwired brain can feel a little
strange, a kettle turned on. Bubbling.
The way it can look at a page and see
a word,
and in that word
it picks out a seed, planting it
to grow into a tree
whose roots stretch
outward
to construct a world,
and on that world
people are born
like new seedlings
from the soil beneath.
Teabags in a mug of destiny.
And yet I can't remember a face.
I can't picture the moment we met,
or the way your name and that face
connect.
Unless you are someone closely tied
to my heart, sugar sweet,
I forget - wiped clean like
a computer terminal switched off at
the end of the day. Terminal reality,
minuscule memory.
Except... I can remember the oddest facts,
dates and times, memories I shouldn't
be able to recollect, diary entries from
decades behind a faded screen. Misted
in hot water steam.
It hyperfocuses on the minuscule.
It fades when it's been around people,
but it craves those people, and the attention,
though it hates the eyes...
those eyes that gaze upon me
in ridicule. Milking my pain.
It hides in shadows, but dances under starlight.
Under stage light it brightens like a supernova
skyline, and drinks it down.
Yet place it in a group and it sits confused.
Give it room with one and it will talk from
earth to the moon.
It's complex, a web of tangled threads
fizzing with electricity, yet missing
some vital chemistry. So it sits idly thinking
about every aspect of a cup of tea, and still
not making one, except in a poem that
goes on repeating for too long.
Kettle on...
Teabag in mug...
Sugar (2 maybe 3)
Hot water...
No milk for me...
Drink instantly...
Repeat.
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