They come and go, the sprinkles
And the monsoons, the drizzle and the flood
We are all memory-gatherers
Twigs that kindle the grail of what is yester
The pasts that make us tick in the present
The laughter of those cheeks that skinny-dipped
On a little creek or the kiss that was not meant to be
Yet stood as a baptism to a gender
Or perhaps the breast that hid the secrets of spring
And held onto them till autumn.
Yet we don’t determine when memories fall
Or how they are processed. They are just
Raw cuts of meat minced inside a blender
And sent through a conveyer belt
To be pounced and made into
Little editions of time.
Minced is how we feed our memories.
Adipose is how they fatten us with life.