The word ‘memory’ pushes off the lips
the way a child pushes themselves on a swing,
with grace, without effort, and with the sensation of pure delight.
But not all are filled with the sugary lemonade of youth.

To be a memory is bittersweet.  
Sweet because you are remembered,
bitter because you are the past.
When you are a memory,
there is a soft haze around the edges of your appearance.
The features of your complexion lose form as if they have been melting in the hot attic of the brain,
forgotten.
Verbs surrounding your existence are solely conjugated in the past tense. There will never be any need for the present or the future anymore.
You are just a thought.
Just a grain of sand in the mind,
stirred only when the tide is high.

I hate that you are just a memory.
I hate that there will be no present and no future with you again.
My body still remembers how you felt,
the way a bed remembers the way you slept.

Every time I think of you I wish you were more.
More than an image constructed by my mind.
More than a feeling left in a cavity in my heart.
More than a word clinging to the tip of my tongue.

I wish to wrap my arms around you,
place your head beneath my chin,
and hold you the way we did so many times.
While you were so many things,
you are a memory.
Something that will never change tense.