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On a chance meeting in a bridal shop...

Irony is a face reaching forward to slap your memory, but it's a cold,
sopping-wet-rag kind of slap.  It plops and slurps its way
across that dead-I-thought memory like a dirty mop,
unable to pick up, only able to leave behind. 

Water runs down through synapses and nerve
endings to collect gradually into a once dried-up memory pool. 
The initial slap is quick (despite its sloppiness) and then over, but the sliver of a face 
remains reflected back from the depths,
flashing into consciousness at unexpected moments.  

Forgetting is pretending someone doesn't exist until memory believes they don't exist.
But like a sadistic tormentor lulling a child to sleep with promises of rainbows and sparkles,
irony waits and watches and picks the vulnerable spot: 
I once more a bridesmaid, and there he is with his bride. 

The memory pool gradually dries up, but the image
imprints into the brain's lining - one more layer of irony
(happy birthday to me) to prove wet slaps come 'round here regularly.


( 1 comment — Leave a comment )
Feb. 15th, 2009 05:54 am (UTC)
And the true irony is...
... that the day I wrote this would have been Kyle's and my eighth anniversary.
( 1 comment — Leave a comment )