we have erased ourselves,
whittled down years and years and hours and nights and dreams
into what we think is a coherent narrative:
in love, out of love. in bed, out of bed, never love again.
we have taken black ink
and covered up entire weeks, months of history,
faces and words and thoughts and photos,
for the sake of never reliving what was felt so keenly then.
on the other side, now, of healing:
was it worth the loss, to prevent some emotions?
was it worth the deficit of self,
the ousting of soul, to prevent circumspection?
i am not so sure, now; but with our permanent methods
we have only blank pages to look back on.