You are a Memory

You are a memory.
I’d say to myself and get into
those bars where you’d find
lonely, beautiful and drunk women.
I always wondered why these
three unrelated adjectives are
often found together in humans.
So the usual ritual starts,
I’d buy them a drink,
they’d light up my cigarette.
The hands will find ways inside shirts,
eyes of lust will take a tour
of the contours.
And I’d take them home,
to revive dead feelings and
satisfy the insatiable appetite.
We’ll talk. Kiss. Undress. Fuck.
They’d cuddle.
I’d not sleep.
Some mornings, they would cook breakfast.
Especially the ones with rings hiding
in expensive wallets of the brands I
couldn’t pronounce the name of.
And the cycle continues.
The wheel rotates.
The vicious circle.
The never-ending game.
The contingency rituals.
But these rituals never become habits.
Habits have a different meaning
in my dictionary; you.
You and your memories.
And I’m too tired to space in my heart
for some other woman because
it’s too full of you.
You and your memories.
And whenever I open this already brimming
heart a little bit for someone,
I fail on the thought of failing you.
You and your memories.
So tell me, love, what should I do?
I’ve already stopped leaving Lillies on
your grave in the early hours of lonely mornings.
How should I stop the memories to
come out of the grave of our past
to haunt my present?
Tell me.
But I know you’re not just a memory, love.
You are what remains of me,
bare to bones and 6 feet under the earth.
And I am, but nothing,
a reminiscence of you.

Photo from Pexels.

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