Once upon a something

Maybe Maybe I am my own home.

Sometimes when I speak to you though

I remember things that never happened.

The memories come anyway.

Like they are mine.

Like the high and low has barreled through me.

Things I can feel.

Things I can know.

All places and all my real memories become little plasma boxes on a screen.

And I can’t remember the real people.

The quiet conversations spoken over pillows and the dark air.

Spoken at the ceiling and from the heart.

And to a girl.

But I guess I do remember.

And although I can’t feel it now,

Maybe they are home.

They are the furniture, the lamps, and the sunlight that fill the house of my soul.

And turn it into the place I reside.

The place I exist.

And I keep them.

Even while they are not happening.

Even in solitude.