The Great Northern @ 3 am

Memory is fickle, false, a frivolous fancy fuck.
It takes pleasure in the tease, seduces us,
the chase of things that never existed nor will again.

I bow down and worship this cruel entity.
The lives and worlds it creates are out of reach-
And there it sits on a throne of sorrows and joys, crafted in dominance.

Memory is cold as inscriptions in stone. Memory is warm like your body.
Lip and tongue pressed against mine in the early hours at the Great Northern.
A moment of permission to hold, savour.

Memory has allowed us to seize all the time in the universe, yet fail to keep hold of it.
Memory is our driver, our bondage, and there is no safe word.
I pay homage to it, like we all do.

My life offered to the fleeting gossamers of experience, tumbling in space.
We, duel victims, duel recipients, stealing filaments, losing them-
Love making it worth it.
Love making it all worth it.