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.