They are made of the memories you once had, which only grow rosier and brighter, day by day.

They are made of the dreams of how wonderful things could have been and must never suffer the indignity of actually still existing.
Of being real.
Of having flaws.
Of breaking and deteriorating.

Only the things you no longer have will always be perfect.

The things you’ve lost are still perfect in your head.
They never rusted.
They never broke.
So they must never suffer the indignity of still existing.