sometimes, the people in my memories blur,
as if one could be another could be a third;
and sometimes, my memories aren't memories at all
but ghosts pretending, out of line with reality,
molded from formerly accurate shapes,
replete with embellishments.
i study these fictions as truths,
the two now indiscernible like distant shadows,
the rate at which they multiply absurd.
i am the dream and you are my bird.