vapid placidity

it's said that our dreams are just memories on playback, tales unraveled and stitched together again. it's said that we, humans, are of the superior intellect, a collection of undiscovered geniuses. it's said that individuality is cosseted, no desire for the status quo to be the template of life.

so why is it that I can't remember anything but you- the quivering timbre of your laughter in the early dawn, the way you smiled when you heard a dog bark down the road, the way your hand fit seamlessly into mine. so why is it that you made me into some monstrosity of my thoughts- a demon plaguing you with faux idiocy. so why is it that you desired something pre-made, a cookie-cutter relationship, when you were so idiosyncratically beautiful, a bird free of the shackles of society yet unable to fly because they stripped your wings.

maybe because you are the ouroboros of me; indulging in my dreams so you could pollute them and make them become the wasteland of your nightmares.