To know you, to cope with you

I don't cry about death itself.
It doesn't frighten me much.
At times it almost sounds appealing.
I only cry when I think about the beautiful memories lost.
But memories are always lost,
contorted,
mangled,
obscured.
In life, memories are a fog
saturated with plans and wants and ideals.
The imagination leaves little room for truth.
So, why do I cry?
What will I miss most?
Touch, sounds, sight, taste, feel, hear, see, do, good, bad, up, down, far, near,
good, bad, up, down,
here, gone.