Is it too late to remember you?
I recognise you in these walls, the mirror.
Longing marks the death of reality.
You’ve left me a second time.
I can’t recall; I want them back:
remnants of dances and car rides and
echoes of your voice and embrace and
memories of home.

I hate you for letting them slip from your grasp.
Both fumbling idly amidst our passing desires,
Incapacitated by our tempers.
You’ll regret this someday.