samalicious

I Can, Adjectively

I can
metaphorically
flush our memories
down the toilet.

I can
grammatically
take our endless,
yet comprehensive,
run-on sentences of memories
and turn them into inexplicable,
meaningless fragments.

I can
literally
hide the tangible existence of our memories
out of site in my closet,
or slowly burn them into unidentifiable pigments of
grayish-black.

I can
mentally
confuse our memories with
euphoric dreams of my impractical, idealistic
fairytale prince charming
that gazes upon me with
eyes of an unrealistic shade of blue
and wavy locks of hair that
I'm unable to keep my wandering fingers away from.

I can
cynically
deny the existence of
any days,
hours,
minutes,
seconds
that you and I shared together.

I can
electronically
disable any conversation we may
nostalgically engage in,
discussing the preexistence of our memories.

I can
hyberbolically
make our extravagant memories
seem miniscule and insignificant.

I can
statistically
divert the strength of our relationship,
skew the data far to the left,
and make any linear or curved function
an impractical line of best fit.

I can
acronymically
Get
Around
Resentful
Realities
Expressed in
Tears


I can
alcoholically
drown away every last memory
until no part of my body can recognize a memory,
let alone
function correctly.

I can
nihilistically
deny the existence of our memories or
even create a delusion in which I deny the fact
that I, myself, exist.

I can
hastily and insensitively
rip every photograph into diminutive pieces of glossy confetti
and later forget which trashcan was used to dispose of it.

I can,
remorsefully or not,
perform any or all of the above,
but nothing can keep me from reliving those memories
every night as I sleep.

You are,
literally,
mentally,
spiritually,
figuratively,
etcetera,
etcetera,
the man of my dreams.

Whether I like it or not.