At The End Of The Day

This want to hold you in my mind, I — Isn’t that how memories work? You take it in, and it sort of floats around in your head.  Aside from it being instant entertainment, it allows you to revisit it constantly.  But again, you were made to be forgotten.  I try to hold onto it — rewind to the day you held me for seconds.  It was the first and the last, I’m afraid.

But as the night turns to day again, I am reminded of this: that your eyes are hollow, your smile is preserved in photographs, and the voice that rumbled in my head so ominously can barely resonate.  Not even an echo.  Hello? I can only describe the way my name rolled off your tongue so smoothly.

As I write you down, even I know that at the end of it all, these are just words — and we are all stories.  Stories end, unfortunately, and even if I wish it otherwise, I can no longer write about empty air.

I wish I could.
I wish I could.

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