We die.
We all die.
We die with fingerprints on our souls,
and our mouth filled with tastes which we have swallowed,
we die with the textures our hands have felt,
and with the beauty our eyes have seen,
we die with the melodies we have heard stuck inside our ears,
and with the stories our scars tell,
we die with fragrances embedded in our lungs,
and some with cigarette stains on their lips,
we die with all the love we have been given,
and the hate we try so hard to forget.
We die with memories,
but they do not get buried with us.
We die.
Leaving people, things, places,
and unresolved feelings
Behind.
We die.
Unable to ever exist in,
*anything but memories.