make believe

i was right when i wrote
everything would be different.
i just didn't realize
how
or
to what extent
or the reason
why.
because
why
hadn't happened yet.
no one could have foreseen
what took place on that
fateful night.
i wouldn't know where to
begin.
if i even want to begin.
if i write it down
it might come back to life.
we've worked so hard to bury the memory
to forget
what we did.
forget.
like you can ever really forget
something of that magnitude.
inebriation
that can't be counted as
an excuse.
to write it down
makes it real.
as it is
i am convinced we dreamed it up.
a waking
lucid
nightmare
of a dream
but
a dream.
like the monsters under your bed
and the skeletons in your closet.
pull the covers over your head and you are
safe.
fill the closet with winter coats
and
umbrellas
and
skis and golf clubs and board games
and the skeletons will stay
buried, deep within.
this nightmare event
you can bury it.
and we did.
or at least we tried.
or at least
i tried.
maybe i was the only one
who wanted to forget.
who
needed
to forget.
to keep things
normal.
to move on
or around
but not through.
to sidestep the
repercussions
of our
insipid
actions.
was i the only one
who did not want to
talk it through?
who remained
tight-lipped
about what it was.
if you don't ever talk about it you can pretend
that it was meaningless
that it was trivial
that it never happened.
i can still pretend
yes, i can still pretend.