Hey, remember when you and I sat in a field and I found an interesting rock that may even have been pretty and you smashed it for fun? Hey, remember how you and I sat in a field and I held that interesting rock that was once pretty and tried to put it together until I gave up? Hey, remember that you and I sat in a field and a rock was just a rock and not foreshadowing and not a metaphor for us?
In my bedroom, on a shelf is still a piece of that rock. Will my memories of you become so jagged, dust-covered, neglected in time, will they pain me as the rock does when I hold it too tightly?