If everything is staring at me
from this plush nostalgia
what am I to do
when you all forget?

Because all I am is words and notes,
scribbled roughly when I'm not
sure if I'm inspired or
if this is just that dream again,
and my heart aches with my
stowed-away sewing scissors
to get them out again and forget,
forget, forget.

Smiling and happy…
maybe when it's my own promise
on the line, I'll remember again.

My desire to say "fuck with it"
is almost overwhelming,
but not like the lifted weight
on my rising thighs.