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
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! :-)