[ the art of remembering ]

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the thing about having a long-term memory?

you become the survivor of moments,
of words, of places, and of things
that people bury

you become an hourglass filled with the sands
of the past, the present, the future
that people forget

you become a mausoleum adorned
with historical artifacts;

the movie receipt on the first date,
the missed calls and unopened emails,
the collar of your first pet,
the pregnancy kit on the counter,
the flowers given on the anniversary,
the blue box and the gold ring,
the white dress and the wedding invitations,
the scar on your knee when you fell of that bike,
the university hoodie of your first love,
the box containing your childhood hidden in the attic,
the empty apartment room when she moved out,
the calendar with the big day encircled,
the keys of your first car,
the song that reminds you of your parents,
the shoes being left outside the door,
the smell of incense when your grandmother still lived,
the diagnosis from the doctor after months of treatment,
the yearbook you left in your old hometown,
the promise of forever he broke when he said goodbye

a myriad of coincidences and regrets
that people leave behind

you become a reminder of good and bad times,
a collective storage box for everything else
that people overlook and disregard

and that hurts you the most because
all you've ever wanted to do
was to cease reminiscing
and just let it all go

but you can't,
because who else would remember?

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