Memory breathes,

claiming a life of its own

it breathes

reminding me of how little I control

it breathes,

pulling the past forward

in the most pertinent way,

to recollect all I did and didn’t say.

Olfaction the oxygen

memory inhales

to walk down the lane

of reminiscent tales,

Where I stayed in reality

in pleasure and in pain,

now breathing little reminders

of progress in my brain.

Memory breathes,

to pepper my ordinary life,

with moments of meaning

between all the strife.

Memory breathes,

in the middle of a regular day.

It needs to breathe,

it has no other way.