Every single thing we think is real is not.
You loved me when the summer was hot
But now that you don’t love me, that memory hurts
And so I don’t think about that memory a lot,
And no, I don’t even look now at this one who flirts.
Every single thing we think is real is not.
Every single movie, look, laugh, and poem is fake.
And mutability erases everything, everything—but this ache,
Which is the pain of knowing every single thing is fake.
Every moment flies, and was never real before its flight.
Moment! There’s an hour that wants to talk to you. Can you take
A half a moment out of your busy moment’s day
To listen to what my sad complaining hour has to say?
No? Okay, I’ll just talk to this mass of moments in the night
Of how every beautiful thing is built to break
And every single thing we think is real is fake,
And not only fake, painful, and the pain goes on and on
Even when all of the fake things, and everything, is gone.
