some memories

are like a ball of hair stuck in the bottom of the sink,

impossible to untangle by hands

are like futile attempts to fly to the centre, when

centripetal forces pull you outward

are like traversing a circular maze, trying

to get to the centre

only to realize, that

there is no opening to the centre

that it is all shrubs and bushes, growing

just high enough, that

you’d think you can see

what’s on the other side,

only if you jump high enough

but you’ll never jump

high enough