incoherence, cold spoons, feeding myself off pieces of myself lodged acutely on the tip of my brain's tenderest sense

i don't have time to cope, i tell everyone
but i do make time on my own to mourn
to cry for the lost memory i used to play again and again
with obsession, with burning resolve
till every nook felt rummaged and every crack felt filled

i call it futile
because today i only remember playing it over and over again
and yet not a clue what "it" is