I remember you, for better or worse,
Picture with you my only riches,
With forgotten dates and kind words -
A rare thing where my words are afraid to hurt.
I wrote about you, in metaphors and poems,
in joy and blessings,
Yet
Yet now our eyes don't meet, a
Silly game of avoiding tag without winners,
A twisted silence never quite so silent,
We take our diaries and tear the pages
with our names and childish comments.
We lose our pens to lose the memory
of our dependence
on our reliance
on each other.
We were young,
And so ignorant we were,
building tree houses on trees collapsing
into shrinking leaves.
You probably don't remember me.
I probably don't remember you too.
Because isn't that what memories do?
Our own precious versions of you.
YOU ARE READING
No one Gives a Damn
PoetryPoems I have written about feelings and things no one probably gives a damn about. I'm on Facebook as The Writer. (Nevermind, no one gives a damn anyway)
