Bloom and wither: tales of selective memory
The worst pain in my chest, my eyes couldn’t be more red. My hopes and dreams with you through that wide window went. I knew an ending thatI never saw coming. Somehow surprised by how carefully I wanted to protect you and how you carelessly broke me.
“Come visit me,” read your text to a disguised name on your phone. How did you know in spring that by autumn we’d be done? A forgotten feeling that is… gosh, it’s been so long, but can’t forget how it hurt long after you were gone. The way you used me, then brought flowers to my tomb. And while my own tears dried, you grieved my departure as if you were never warned. Years passed and a friendship was not in the plans, so better thank this golden heart of mine for keeping you around.
It’s always the good girls, isn’t it, who get robbed of their youth, of years they could’ve spent discovering what truths there were in every whisper the wind blew. I could’ve sailed the seven seas, published an almanac with all the knowledge I would’ve gained, instead of endlessly exploring your brains. Too long a tired love we kept; too easily your disloyalty I forgave.
Often torn between resentment and regret about a connection so undeniably precious. Suddenly, the memory of being deeply loved once, fades. Then, the love comes back, takes over the bad memory, it is erased… Until next time, when the cycle restarts all over again.
With you my hopes both bloomed and withered. I learned about heartache, the same way I learned what love meant. It’s a wistful contradiction I face whenever I try to turn the page – a page nonetheless blank by now and ready to be rewritten, but one whose shadows of pencil marks can never be hidden.
