Memory has a misplace button.
No erase.

Lose them in the jumble,
Things you do not like.
Bury them in sands of time.

A photograph.
A book.
A scent.
A sight.

They knock one grain of sand.
It tumbles and slides.
An avalanche.

The things you hid
From yourself.

They ache,
Misplaced memories.
Dull, useless

History unchanging.
Decisions badly made.

“What if?”
“If I had only.”
“I should have seen.”

Taunts from your past self,
Thrown at you from the
Battlements of hindsight.

Don’t let yourself weep.
It is the past.
It is sand.
It is dust.


I found a box of things yesterday while searching for something so inane that I have forgotten what it was. It was a Pandora’s box of memories from a few years past. Things I chose to forget. Regrets of things I could have prevented if I had only seen. I tried to put it into words in my journal afterwards but found my pen hovered, unable to voice what I felt. So I let myself sleep on it and let it out with a few words of a poem.
The mind’s power of memory is remarkable and glorious, but it can be a source of unexpected and abrupt sadness and melancholy.