Memory

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I can see it,

The way your wrinkled fingers uneasily linger over another empty glass of liquid amnesia. The way it hesitates, hovering for the breath of a second, before quivering back to the rough, wooden tabletop as your hand slowly clenches itself into a calm fist.

You’re remembering.

Becoming lost in some silver memory, 

Behind the veil of closed eyelids and a nostalgic, lukewarm smile, you’re remembering. 

You’re probably thinking of her, or at least whatever parts of her that she left in your mind.

You’re thinking of her before she left, 

Before sailing off like a burning red autumn leaf drifting to some far off cloud.

The ghost of her smile,

The glowing, warm face delicately etched into the cavern of your memory.

The way she laid as she slept,

The way that you thought nothing could be more peaceful, 

That nothing in life could be more meaningful than that moment. 

As the slightest bit of ravendark hair tilted over her eyelids,

The feeling of your rough, warm hands met with her cool, smooth skin, you feel the rush of electricity pass with every inch you take towards her heart.

You felt her lift the floodgates of your cold heart open into an exciting world

A world of love.

You’re thinking of the distant, cold expression she left as she whispered her goodbye, and walked into the city rain.

You’re lost.

As the slightest bit of feeling left in your heart becomes quietly numbed by another round of alcohol.

Lost in a memory. 

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