I have met quite a few mendacious people

who misleadingly claim to have begun afresh

and forgotten a few chapters.  Only if we were a book in object  and not a reader of our own stories, our memories would then  not have contained the insignificant little details

of those who visited us in the past, who we chose to interact, love,

and then gradually pass to our sub-conscience

or, maybe as they claim, to non-existence.  There is a sanctity that this body holds and I abjure it every time

when I try to move on. Am I the only one

to have dedicated not the chapters

but an entire book on the people

I have met and loved before?

To have remembered the cutest cowlick

she sported instead of the bangs

in trends bygone? 

Even my belongings speak of her,  I carry her essence in my stationaries,

my Ts and my fragmented histories.  All of which are witnesses of her magic.  I am pursuing distance,

while none of these is

admitting or even closely willing

to detach from her rapt stories,

echoing distinctly in my ears and heart

ever since,

we met.    I certainly know, you ought to work upon your pretence skills.

Your lies are toothless.  And my love evolves

over the memories of the chapters I have lived,  Just like your conscience. 

There are a few spaces where we can be truthful and less delusional.

Stay related! :-)