All the memories I have of you now-
Will eventually fade away.
I can feel them leaving my brain-
Little gaps have formed a bridge
between my dreams and waking life
It terrifies me that soon,
I won't remember what
your hands felt like
running down my spine
Or the way you held my hands
and pinned me down
Ribs touching, lungs
collapsing and expanding in unison
I want to remember
So I'll write you down in ink
and never forget the way
you made me feel
Your lips may have well been
sewn to mine
Interlocking for hours upon
hours
Long in to the night
The way your teeth would gnaw
at my neck
or how you'd turn me over-
and kiss me up and down
the lines of my back,
gently biting those little
places I disclosed of-
Slowly driving me insane
And I don't want to forget you
The way your eyes peered into mine
I could never quite tell what
was on your mind
No matter how many times I asked-
Why you looked at me that way
You responded with a kiss
and not an answer
And I guess that was
the answer to my long
winded question
You wanted nothing more
than the closeness
of our bodies colliding
and our hips guiding
one another on a beautiful journey
And your car was like a spaceship
We'd travel to uncharted planets
where time never mattered
nor did it exist
I want to remember all of this
A few years from now
I'll eventually forget
And I know you're not coming back
So slowly, I'm trying to accept that
But my heart and mind,
can't close the doors
on those wondrous times
I could go on and on and on....
As you can see, I shouldn't
prolong
My pen won't stop moving
Eventually-
All good and bad things
come to an end
And all we're left with
is a bitter taste
And no amount of mouthwash
Could erase the impression
left on my lips
I simply don't want to forget you...
And there is nothing I can do-
But keep you in my memory
© 2014 Christina Jackson
A reminder to myself: I always write down the memories I have of a person that has parted from my life, whether it be death, or separation of the heart. Truthfully and honestly, we all grow old and some day we won't remember the little beautiful things that occurred in a short lived romance. Poetry is like an unorganized history book, classifying all that was and all that could have been.