I'm cheating,
backdating new memories
to make less exciting days
more eventful when I remember them later.
Dates are only numbers,
and we've created so many ways
to manipulate numbers:
addition, subtraction, multiplication, division . . .
Okay, we've created four ways
to manipulate numbers,
but if I hadn't elaborated,
"so many ways" would've sufficed for
a number as small as four.
This is the method
to my madness:
subtle exaggeration to make something less
seem like something more,
like, adding you
to days when I hadn't even
counted on you yet,
filling in trenches dug by misery,
or vacuums of apathy,
the space in the center of a zero,
copying off of the future's paper
to pass the shortcomings of the past.
I'm cheating.
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