The Memory Tree

I close my eyes,

and I see visions of butterflies,

and ladies on clothes pin heels,

auras of colors from the way I feel.

It sounds drug induced,

but it’s not.

It’s the world in which I live,

where time doesn’t exist,

and there’s no persistence or resistance.

It just is.

A collection of dreams and memories mixing together,

creating the perfect weather for me to rest under the red mushroom tree,

and wonder why I have to remember everything.

Every story I’m told stays within a fold of my mind,

to be visualized over and over until it merges with my own.

And when I’m alone,

is it my memory?

Or someone else’s.

Both a blessing and a curse,

it’s at its worst when people don’t remember as much as I do.

You won’t remember what I said,

but I’ll remember your whole dictionary of words that you used for one conversation,

the way you tilt your head in realization

that nothing gets past me.

I don’t mean to be.

I take the memory to my mushroom tree,

and let it run wild amongst my mind

like the rest of me.