I keep replaying something That may not have been real. Each time I reach into the past, The shape of it has slightly changed. A door that opens differently, A voice re-tuned, rearranged. I used to think I held it still, Untouched, exact, the way it was. But every memory I revisit Comes back rewritten, minor flaws. The version I remember now Is not the one that first occurred. I’m holding borrowed light, Reflected, never mine. A moon that only shines Because the sun once did. Nothing here’s original — Just echoes wearing skin. I call it memory, But it’s invention. You told the story differently Than how I told it to myself. Two people at the same table, Two pasts kept on separate shelves. Maybe neither one of us Was lying, only building — Laying bricks of what we needed Over what was really there. It’s not that I forgot. It’s that I kept revising. Not loss. Reconstruction. I’m holding borrowed light, Reflected, never true. A moon that only shines Because it once looked at you. Nothing stays original — Just versions layered thin. I call it memory, But it’s invention. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe that was never it at all.
