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Nick Huber May 31
You have to give yourself permission.
You said that once, I remember it clearly.
I remember you saying that. Right in the middle of one of those many episodes I had.
You know,
One of those episodes where I sat at the table.
Shaking my leg,
Hunched over my journal.
You remember the one:
It's that journal I have that looks like an old Islamic prayer book.
Complete with geometric patterns embossed on the front, machine painted, with a lock on its side.
That lock, that doesn't really lock.
It keeps itself shut through intimidation.

You and the book have so much in common: maybe it's your sister.
Or something like your sister. Of the same blood, of the same mother, but maybe of different fathers.
That's not the point though. It doesn't really matter.
But I remember it well.
Even though it never actually happened.

Really, it was just part of a dream. Whether it was a dream I had during the day, or one at night like everyone else has at some point in their lives.
It  
Doesn't  
Matter.

It's just, I remember it well.
Like it actually happened.

Maybe by thinking about it this way...
It did.
Like telepathic communication, or reading my "energies", or something else that can't be proven beyond a feeling.
Maybe in this dream... You were there.
Not as an extension of my subconscious desire,
but like you were physically there.
My brain interpreting the electrical signals of you being right in front of me.
Kind of like your picture that shows up on my phone when you call.
Existing, but encased in memory, not reaching out.

But really, you couldn't have been there.
You were only present in these dreams.
Comforting me there, taking my hands, speaking softly into my ears.
In real life, I knew that was impossible.
You could see nothing, through my eyes.
You could never be that close for long.
I guess it hurt you in a way, I couldn't see. But,
I wanted you there.

But lets go back. Let's not get discouraged. Let me remember what you said in that dream, where one detail is always left out.
What was it you were saying? It seemed very important.
And I can't help but feel the memory I have, is counterfeit.
Because I'm a man, who questions my motives.
And you being there, seems so clear. Like it had to have happened.

So let's recap: there we were, in the car, staring at the city lights. Scriabin's Piano Sonata 6, blaring through the stereo. This scene always seems to cut out, right at this point. Your hand was gripping my own. Your fingers, lightly caressing my skin. My heart was racing, I looked at your eyes and said: "What's next?"
Your hand reached up, brushed my cheek. Our embrace moving closer and closer. Your hair, resting softly with my fingers moving through.

                                                                             (End Scene)
What am I giving myself permission for?
                                                                             (Silence)
Thorns Dec 2018
An Ode to Thee Broken Memories
A thought to those wonderful moments
A teardrop for when it ended
But a smile because it happened
With a depression, for it will never happen again
And suicide to make the pain end
Revived by the sound of his voice
Living again to see his face
To see him happy
Though it's not and never will be with you
As long as he's happy
But I will cherish those moments
Those broken memories
An Ode to Thee Broken Memories
An Ode to Thee Broken Memories...
Melissa Beck Jun 2014
I used to know you so well,
but now I know nothing.
Time changes so many things
including ourselves.
This new you is a stranger to me.
The old you, now only a memory.
I miss the way things used to be.
I miss the person you were to me,
but now you have gone and I sit here
and wonder who you are now and if
we will ever meet again.
Will the memories I hang on to of you ever come back to life?
Will this stranger you have become return to me as a friend once more?
Or will we go our separate ways and forget who we used to be?

— The End —