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borrowed time.

this life was meant for someone else,
I think,
so how come I’m living it out -
spending someone else’s time ?
sometimes I have big memories
but they don’t belong to me;
like mumbling Spanish poetry
in my head,
and I don’t speak Spanish -
yet I clearly remember reading it
from a red velvet book
which I don’t possess.
I have photographs of me in Marrakech
- yet I’ve never been,
& the people in this village,
driving by,
smile & wave –
and I’ve no idea who they are.
They seem to know
who they are,
but maybe, like me,
they’re living another’s life,
living on borrowed time.