It’s a pretty rotten little apple I catch
I eat it right down to the core where the flesh is softer where the fresh is flesher
And there with the fresh flesh I flesh out this idea
that somehow and somewhere you’re not alive at all
and you’re not dead either
you can’t really die when you are made up of all the interactions
and those interactions morph and then wander off
Somewhere else on their own
and they get lost and they don’t remember and that doesn’t matter
Because then another memory disappears
and with it
Someone else is grieving
That’s why we remember
we remember because it is yet to come