sometimes i forget.
the furniture is all the same,
and the arguments and the jokes,
and the conversations too. all too easy.

but then a wrong thing trips
the mind, that upward hypnic jerk
–a label
–a misused word
–the gossamer contours of an unfamiliar moonlit bedroom.

and in its place, memory:
like an oft-cradled bell jar
a butterfly slowly decaying within
fond scores of fingerprints crazing the glass.

the pain of returning,
like an inquisitive tongue to a wound in the mouth,
until i forget again.