Inherently,
there are those memories that ****** away at our crinkled hearts.

Some pull & tug in the same way,
eyelids close  
slowly and sleepily on Sunday mornings.

A few and a half dust-motes on memories are like paper cuts.

Short, sweet, stinging.

A handful are incredibly blurry, is it for the best?

Whether, my fingertips are trying to paint a lie white,
even, my mind is not too sure.

I keep living and breathing past tense.

I  liked the way your lips turned downwards before that smile,
the roughness of your fingertips against mine.

Of course, it is all gone now.

You are gone now.

And I have not even forgiven myself
for
forgetting how it             *f e l t.