Flames crept to the center
Of pages: torn. Written so long ago
That memories of that time
Begin to fade, like photographs,
Blurred around the edges. I find
I can no longer remember.
Some moments cling,
To the pages. They are woven into
The words. And for every word
That reminds my soul, a tear,
One so hypocritical in its existence
Rolls mockingly down my cheek.
Should I lift a hand to wipe away
The memories, surely that would be
Similar to admitting defeat. But,
To what? I always fought. Why?
Was it your smile? The trust I felt
I owed you? The simple way that I
Could lose my guard around you?
Could I ever leave you, the one who
Wrote so many memories into me?
I could not. No, but you could leave me.