For me it’s songs, blaring out the car speakers

on an empty highway.

The memories are always too good,

film quality, blurred around the edges,

and filled with naïve promise.


It’s a timeline,

like those in an old history book,

1066 pops up from a straight line,

beside a rendered painting.

This line is dotted with single covers,

and memories that weren’t really that good.


Where are the tears?

Where are the alcohol soaked nights

that left me helpless?

Where is the shadow of anxiety?

Not in these glossy highlights,

but buried beneath the dulcet chorus,

you’ll find it.