That distant memory - a used balloon that has already served it's purpose

Unable to soar pronounced as it once were

Only to bobble from my path deflated and regrettably forgotten

Our senses fashion effigies
Of a dead past, useless as guides
Where strict finality resides.  
Mute phantoms drowned in icy seas.  
But halved funereal diptychs show
Reflections of the things to be.  
The not yet displayed in symmetry,
A future mirrored long ago.

It’s hard to remember everything I did with her
When I remember, it hurts
But I don’t want to forget
Maybe this is real pain
Pain that I don’t want to go away
Pain that I’m willing to sit through
If it means remembering you

One foot in my future path
The other one in my past
Two lives before me
At the crossroad

One pushes me
Into the land of prospects
The other holds me
like I have unfinished business

One is a path I’ve known
The other, I’m yet to explore;
Clean the slate and start afresh

Memories hold me back
But new ambitions push me away
Forever is not my place here

But for now, I’ll be still
For a short space of time
Deciding what's best for me
And me, and me!

She played music -
music you’d leave your windows open for.
She rolled into rooms you’d forgotten
and soaked into your cellar until your childhood
floated right up to today and stayed for your tomorrows.

She was like that – building new foundations,
or maybe bridges
between now and then,
leaving pathways your feet could find even
once the last note has finished for the day.

She made music that stayed and stained,
leaving her trace, so you could find her again,
like when you returned from years away.
She had an authentic taste, softly unique
and hard to forget.

I remember one song that ran high,
almost out of reach,
then reaching down into my outstretched eyes,
filling them to overflowing and blurring
the pain for a while.

She played music -
music you’d leave both eyes open for.

I let you go,
like the waves rolling on the shore,
and a little boy who lost his footwear,
crying scared to go back to her mother
where he had lost the gifts.

I let you go,
like a couple of ashy Prinia birds
dancing among the bamboo branches
sing loudly in the breeding season, build nests and lay eggs,
but replaced by the eggs of cuckoos that grew and were cared for with love.

I let you go,
like cities that have long since died
the quiet and lonely
and people left
and no one ever came back to occupy.

I let you go,
like the paintings of pain
from wounds that bleed and lose
displayed at art exhibitions,
and everyone was amazed to see.

I let you go,
like a memory in a photo album
from loved ones first,
yellowed full of blotches of teardrops,
worn-out dusty and looks real.

I let you go,
like an angry poet
in front of half-finished poems
who have been lost for words for a long time
to be reassembled.

I let you go,
like falling rain,
and a boy running around looking for shelter
with wounds on his right hand
holding tightly to the thorny rose.

I let you go,
like a book
and sad stories
which has been left for a long time
after reading all night.

Once again,
I let you go,
as a most perfect poem,
that I have written,
from the remnants of memories in the head.

Lucid dreams
are my only bridge
to those an insurmountable
distance away.

There is no ship
that can breech
the barrier of time.
There is no ticket
destined for yesterday.

To those of my past,
if only I could impart
a fraction of
the tenderness
that swells from my heart.
I remember you all
with a special fondness,
one that can only be
forged by
lingering regret.

The moment in passing
and the
moment incoming,
smudges into the other.
Time blends effortlessly with itself;
hours melt into one another,
days are indistinguishable,
but the difference between
the past and present
is as evident
as a knife in the gut.

One must wonder
if pain
is the burden of memory,
that to preserve the past,
one must pay dearly at the present.