Feeling like someone else wrote my autobiography

I’m at the top of this hill
Wind blowing right into my skin
Thrusting stinging whispers of you
What you were, what we were
Right through my capillaries
Nerve endings tingle and twinge
I am forced to admit the truth of things
The garments we wore when we were happy
Seem to be destined for a charity box
The coffee, once warm, sits unfinished
Untouched
Just like we never touched one another
Talking about me rather than to me
I lean away rather than towards
I know what I said
I know
I know this, believe me
But I know what I see
I know what I feel
I know what’s happening
I know how it ends
That slow goodbye where images fade
Dreams go undreamt
I don’t know what will happen
Becomes something obviously happening
Sliding down slippery slopes
Can’t climb back up again
Sliding into the gaping chasm
Of a memory, forgotten
A statistic, converted
One among a thousand
Not special
Not really
That coffee shop went out of business
Didn’t it?

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48 thoughts on “Feeling like someone else wrote my autobiography”

    1. Coffee here is full of meaning – literal coffee that was a ritual, now ended; coffee as love, now gone cold; coffee that stimulates, now no longer taken within.

      Thank you! I’m glad you liked it.

      Liked by 1 person

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