I’m forgetting us now. Not all at once, just in pieces—  
like a song I used to love but can’t hum anymore.  
It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so vivid  
can fade into the haze,  
sitting next to old dances and that awkward gaze
I guess that’s what memory does—tucks it all away  
until it feels like someone else’s life,  
someone else’s love.  

But there’s a heaviness in forgetting you.  
It’s not like misplacing your keys;  
it’s like walking through a room that used to hold music  
and realizing it’s quiet now.  
You were the kind of person  
I painted a whole future with—  
soft strokes of "what ifs" and "somedays."  
And now?  
Now you’re the kind of person  
I don’t even text when something reminds me of you.  

Maybe that’s how it goes, though.  
We start as lovers, turn into friends,  
then somehow slip into strangers  
without anyone announcing the end.  
It’s bitter, sure,  
but there’s sweetness too,  
because if forgetting is the cost of loving,  
then I’d still pay it every time.  

And so we let go.  
We pack away the pieces  
and shove them into that dimly lit room in our minds,  
the one filled with forgotten birthdays  
and compliments we never gave back.  
It’s not denial; it’s survival.  
Because if we carried it all,  
we’d never have hands free to hold what comes next.  

It did happen.  
We did love.  
But maybe it’s okay to let it sit in the past now.  
Maybe that’s where it belongs.