Tuesday, 26 April 2016

April Poems 2016/26


He says I'm cold
I can forget people entirely
in a time proportionate to how long I've known them.
I have no memories of the hundred or so girls
I had a one night stand with;
nothing but a faceless mask in the bedroom
(or kitchen, bus shelter or this one time
on the top of a double decker bus we were painting
though I think she was a redhead. Or was that me?)
Past lovers get deleted from memory
because I need the storage space for stories
snippets of conversation I hear on the street
and he's disturbed by the ease
I forget people once held so dear;
by the assumption that after twenty years
he would forget me as easily as I would forget him.
I blame it on my mother dying when I was too young
to have developed social intercourse
but the bottom line, I can reluctantly admit,
is I'm just an asshole.

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