I am a slave to pattern
seeking behaviour,
The synapses qua images,
Which had imprinted on me
so strongly,
Have faded away.
Like a perfume,
So intense, and rich, almost
indulgent,
Hanging on every surface,
That has withered away to its base,
And is only caught in a
certain moment.
But the feeling is indistinguishable from the
same impact,
when re-encountered.
Or
at least,
It was.
Was this what Kadinsky
meant to show us?
Is this what Nell lost?
Will I lose it too?
(This poem was written for Escapril 2021)
