callused hands over buzzing metal string,
fingers practiced, deft and adept.
i slept there and woke in a memory—
temporary and beautiful and gone.
a song someone played for me once,
over and done, the lone melody of a heartbroken nostalgia.

the past wraps its arms around me—
history speaks— history lies— history repeats.
keep it inhuman, abstract and formless.
best not to give the past a face
or a place to hide in your heart.
they're the parts you'll miss:
kisses, laughter, drowning in a borrowed sweater.
better to leave it all as loosely connected events,
portents of later misfortune, not a room i can't leave,
a grief grappling with the transience of intimacy.
history can't hurt me— the past is dead—
but that song still gets stuck in my head