Never did I think I would live this long, many of whom I loved
have not, this fallacy of immortality we ache to achieve, eternal life leading
us to perpetual isolation. The fragments of love littering our path from the
past, if not like rose pedals, then lilies.
I can remember the first girl I kissed and the last, while
in-between I linger over those that mattered most, still matter in memory, like
a rose accompanied by its thorns that still trickle with drips of blood from where
each pricked me when I tried to hold too tight.
I remember what I want to remember, repainting love into
something far less painful than it turned out to be, still tasting that kiss,
feeling its importance and my reluctance to shed it, when it’s all that I have
left.
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