In the depths of our passing glances,

You trace someone else’s shadow.

As if tracing the rest of a dream.

And a scene I’ve never seen surfaces.

The vague tone of your voice—

as if leading me to an answer.

I always end up being wrong,

before I even notice.

Whose memory is this?

My heart rejects this déjà vu.

Even though I don’t want to agree,

You smile gently, drawing me in

The made up warmth is

deceiving me—

When I close my eyes—quiet lies.

Only your voice echoes like it’s real.

Our fingers touch like we’re remembering,

Patching up a broken truth.

Whose memory is this?

My heart rejects this déjà vu.

Even though I don’t want to agree,

You smile gently, drawing me in

The made up warmth is

deceiving me— It feels like it

Even my own yesterdays

feel like they’re being rewritten.

If even my wish to believe

is used against me like a weapon—