with the passing of grief

[ This was actually meant to be
two separate poems,
but it all runs together,
bleeds internally . ]

" With the Passing of Grief "
( Essentially, Part Two of
'A Regret for Your Plethora' )

I'm sorry I've forgotten what I'm really sorry for.

I remember when I first met you.
It's amazing how back then,
as I retrospect I realize,
everything was simple.
We liked each other simply because
we had done nothing wrong.
There was no drama,
no hesitation,
no secrecy hidden behind our eyes.

As a matter of fact,
you were the one who said "I love you" first.
I remember it clearly.
If only you had meant it.

Why struggle with the present,
when you can remember the past and thrive?
Because we are all stuck.
There is no escape.

The memory is a fantastic friend to have.
A powerful one, indeed.
It seems my memory knows more than I.
I am not so much afraid of the world anymore;
I am afraid of Myself.
I remember things that didn't happen.
And at the same time,
I cannot remember what I said I could never forget.
I remember dreaming,
without ever having had a chance to sleep.

And I feel myself losing control -- more than usual.
My mind is racing even when my heart is at rest.
I am slipping away from reality,
losting grip of my thoughts.
My hand is sweeping swiftly, freely,
tracing the pen across the paper.
There is no thought behind these words,
yet at the same time there is infinite meaning.

I find b1ood on my hands,
once-pale skin painted red with the passing of grief.
I cut myself again.
As it washes down the shower drain,
I see my dignity wash away with it.

And what is it?
It is a word.
It is a pronoun.
It is nonspecific.
It is perfectly real, floating in existence.
It is a figment of your imagination.
It is Irio.

And as I write,
I notice things are running out.
The ink in my pen is very near the bottom.
My mind is running empty, drawing blanks.
But I call its bluff,
I know it's just a guise.
Ideas are seldom difficult to come by.
I am running out of room, room to grow.
I am running out of space, space to move freely about.

Down to the last three sheets
of paper in this old notebook,
this friend of mine,
I am naturally afraid of what will become of them.
And of what will happen afterward,
what I will do when my little yellow friend
has run out of memory.

And I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I went too far.
I'm sorry I tried too hard.
I'm sorry I misunderstood.
I'm sorry I hurt you.
I'm sorry you misunderstood.
I'm sorry I helped you with him.

But for now I just lie down,
close my eyes,
and succumb to the deep,
dark mysteries of sleep.

And I'm sorry in advance for dreaming of you.