We rise, we coffee, begin the routine,
pricked with flashes, typically,
of the recent past.
There is a filter, that eliminates
the mundane, from the priceless –
which become the cornerstones.
These moments, the poignant ones
steel an emotion, free an event from
brand themselves in the cerebellum.
We are these memories.
The eight-hour-thing over,
insomnia kicks in, the curse
starts the definer-reel rolling.
The worst and the best
flare through the consciousness,
like a closet docudrama,
and then we dream.
The present, the in the moment
is void of context,
without these pure, momentary events.
These are life, become soul.
We are fragile, mortal.
One breath, the next, and then none.
Mortality haunts, makes it unique,
the moments are mine, terminal.
Mutual, shared memories become history.
I cherish these moments,
but they will leave when I do,
unless I write them down.