Only A Memory

We walked together for a moment, so we can run in separate ways forever.

Maybe those nights drowning in bottles and smoke were never lies that cooed me to sleep. Our eyes have met once, underneath street lights made of dreams. It was so simple, so quiet, so lonely, and so scenic. The weight of our words matched the intentions we held behind our breaths at a moment’s notice. I peered right through your rehearsed phrases, hoping you would open your windows just enough to see the sun. Perhaps knocking would garner a response, but I figured out that no one was home.

Maybe we had a good idea until we realized we were not.

There were no what-ifs between us, because struggle was what we shared. Kind words bandaged the bullet holes that still burn, because their brightness was all we could notice. Had there been a decision, all it would be was a transaction neither of us could pay. Cheap thrills could never afford bills, nor would our haunting afterimage.

Maybe those nights were priceless, but what could’ve happened would’ve only lasted a day.

We counted our hours in cigarettes; however, I learned to count something else. Had we had enough packs to call it substance, or was substance all we shared? Had I left enough love for you to take, or was it still unfair? Ash is no different from sand, but it is harder to salvage. I only hope the soot that fell from our nights have imprinted somewhere, as a sign that we were once there.

Whether we were commodities to each other’s emptiness is left in the air. My grievances are carried by the trees that whistle as gently as your words once were. What we once shared are mysteries that will stay untold, but I hope yours would bloom all the same.

There was never a future for who we were back then. Somehow, I’d like to keep it that way.

Even if the distance was inevitably in the making, it would’ve been nice if we kept the pace. However, I can only salute you from a distance, where remembrance meets fondness found only in a certain time and place.

Now only a memory, covered in ashes and sun, holds a table with two empty chairs, each labeled with our names.

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hallucinating on command.

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thanatomania.

thanatomania.

hallucinating on command.

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