(REMEMBRANCE OF LOVERS GONE /// 04.05.2019)
• • •
There are skid marks
in the shape of fallen knees.
On long nights, liquor.
On short nights, dreams half-vivid; so real they seem teasing.
Love waits for no one but itself,
and when you catch up to it,
you will see hindsight in perfect vision,
a tunnel straight through
to what you once thought
was misty treetops,
dressed-down bare trees in winter,
wrap a scarf around your neck and
step forward to reach them closer and
kiss them warm before you go and -
You will remember,
but some days you remember less,
some others you forget
until you remember why you needed to forget.
Memory is a tricky little fiddle,
so easy to play with.
They say it comes in waves,
but mostly it is fragments.
There are skid marks
In the shape of fallen knees.
On long nights, liquor.
On short nights, a small bottle of pills, just enough, to see you again.
• • •
a/n: what do you do when all you're left with are memories, there resting on your cupped palms, each gossamer light and fragile to the touch, soon to be frayed, soon to fly away? that's what this short poem is essentially about: it's about a person who lost their loved one, and is suffering from Alzheimer's, their memory failing them. i hope you liked it!
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TO BE LOVED / poetry
Poetryif you want to be loved - first you must find love within yourself; the rest follows. // a collection of scattered poems, drabbles & musings //
