History is a difficult reality,

because it existed and is remembered in

simple fragments and usually

out of sync.

 

We write it down,

we debate about it

and we pretend to understand it.

 

In reality,

we are making up fictions

that loosely fit the facts,

but rarely even do that.

 

I can tell you what I walked in on

or whose heart I broke

and how bad of a man I was

but I can never show it to you.

 

I can also never show you the tender things

and how good I was to lay besides

and the way I hung on every word,

cared about even the smallest details.

 

History is always lost

whether it’s kept orally or written

and we pretend differently to employ scholars

but we are all rasping at straws and ghosts

even in the best of times.