Memory Kill

I’m trying too much to hold my memories of you.

But it’s getting blurrier, if that is even a word.

I can’t remember exactly how it felt like—what we’ve had before.

I can’t pinpoint the words you used to tell me stories with. I don’t know the ending now.

I can’t keep myself warm from your breathing beside my ear anymore. It’s getting cold.

I can’t reminisce about the days we spent talking to each other. The calls are running within hours. Now, even for a minute, I know you won’t make time no more.

I can’t imagine your face.

The memories no longer flashback. No, they were all flushed down the drain.

Your voice, I can’t even recall.

How hoarse it sounded in the morning.

How serious it tones down when we’re talking about life.

We’re not anymore talking about life.

Or talk, for that matter.

I’m trying to grasp each moment with you.

But it wouldn’t even be possible to grab ahold of you.

Little by little, the pieces are falling apart.

The thought of us being perfect pieces for each other—well, it’s gone now. It has already fallen apart.