The Broken Code For Remembering

If we're all we can be
and what we truly believe,
then life is only mistaking,
forgetting, and properly
         improperly
shades of you and me and
everything in-between.
Dusty minds, in car rides
where we find
what we don't mind is exactly
         every aspect we want to hide.
Forgetting,
just as soon as we're
remembering.
Every
ending is another
beginning.
How many more do we have left?
In the middle of the
         bests?
         Worsts?
         Functions of conjunctions?
         Portraits of assumptions?
No more cake and punch punishments.
No more sentimental sentiments.

This isn't hugs; this isn't drugs.
Not decades or even months.
Windows opened never closed.
Never torn up to be never worn.
You whistle a tune that sings
         "There was no getting over you..."
         because you know you didn't have to.
In a focus unbent,
praying ambivalent,
you're the postcard unsent
from somewhere you haven't been.
The death notice retracted.
The play never acted.
The life you cannot unsee
once impinged upon your reality.
You are pictures out of order.
You are the perfect misnomer,
holding on to your arms
as if I wasn't guilty of your charm.
If you're scrambling up pleas,
this time it wasn't me.
We're not all we can be.
We're maybe not what we see. Seem. See. Believe.

There are words we've spoken for this.
Never more; nothing less.
I don't know pain for obvious.
Nothing more, never the less.
We can be at odds with intent,
casting stones on innocence.
There are words we've spoken for this.
We don't know truth from the oblivious.