I always thought memories would decay with time, but they only seem to become more tangible.
It feels like I'm making a rope with them.
Twisting and braiding them together, gathering them up like twine.
Hanging on every moment, every recollection, every thing about you.
I'm conscious of my folly, my unhealthy obsession. Yet I keep making it.
It is no longer the task of a madman, like it once was, but of one who is quite horribly sane.
And I'm not sure what I'll use it for, but I do know that whatever that is, it does not scare me.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 7:56 PM UTC
I always thought memories would decay with time, but they only seem to become more tangible.
It feels like I'm making a rope with them.
Twisting and braiding them together, gathering them up like twine.
Hanging on every moment, every recollection, every thing about you.
I'm conscious of my folly, my unhealthy obsession. Yet I keep making it.
It is no longer the task of a madman, like it once was, but of one who is quite horribly sane.
And I'm not sure what I'll use it for, but I do know that whatever that is, it does not scare me.
More prose than poetry.
