Smeared Strokes of my Memory

Recurring Thoughts of you are marked on the frayed thin leaflets of my mind– edge-curled pages of my favorite book, the one that only exists behind my eyelids.

In those vague moments between waking and asleep, subplots and magic moments are only half-recalled, some of which now, I can’t determine real or imagined.

I turn the Worn memories over and over again. Constructing the story over and over again during my search for a way I could’ve rewritten that climactic moment, triggering the alternate ending…
The one we once thought was truth.

We could’ve never known until the pencils were down and final accounts recorded,

that all along.. we were only writing a tale of make believe.