Typed Up Memories
I hear you
in the round dome of a car cabin,
in the silence of no radio,
in the click of a turn signal.
There isn’t a single symbol
that can explain anything I want to say.
English is psychiatry if you want it to be.
And I do.
I can break you down like a character,
your descriptions coming from my own eyes,
trying to read in between the lines
of real life,
relaxed after all these months of the same people every day.
And somehow I want to say:
You know. Clearly. Obviously.
How do you know it all?
From that one book
barely hanging on the wall,
clinging with just a few pieces of tape?
And how can that tape hold up that many memories? How can paper hold memories? And how come you’ve memorized all of it?