Remember Me
Do you remember me,
with my strangely vowelled name,
and a certain je ne sais quoi,
of arrogance,
shot dark red,
by the blood of my mistakes,
or my bicolour glasses,
with the gold sheen rubbing off,
punctuated with the cold realisations,
that the commas of conversation,
do not translate well,
into the carefully written dreams I used to dream.
I do not remember myself,
instead these are the snippets,
i have found and put together,
of you,
that have since become absorbed into,
the way I think about myself,
shot dark red,
into the blood of those mistakes,
i should not have spilt,
for someone,
who seemed to be myself, far in the future,
and an image forever inlaid into my mind.