My head is full of passwords. I cram
Facts, niceties and a spoon-fed jam
Of call-back friends.
I like and I am thus alive.
My memory is my hard drive.
With me it ends.

My grandmother remembered me when she passed
Through the birth canal. She asked
Why she was here.
So she remembered me
And it was all so clear

And when I gag and thrust my memory into the pyre of what I knew and felt is who I am, I was,
It stops coming back.
I lack
The sight of what I was remembered for before the rosy form of life encircled all this space.
Forgive me if I forget to love,
I remember how to boil an egg.

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