Memory,
a composition of similes,
only a face to try and match
what lingers on me.
But ever since I saw you,
with bloodshot
slowly waning eyes
inside a casket
too simple to be yours,
I knew little of faith
and more of the heart's
lament.
For you,
memory was like a
first dance,
savored yet also unwilling
to become anything short
of innocence.
Each time I imagine you,
I can't help but sing
the remembrance you
spun with.
For me,
memory can never be
properly described as a symbol,
nor dressed up by costumes
that give up on ivory weddings
and chrysanthemum towers.
For all of us,
memory will remain,
a clock perched high above
horizon's stability,
telling us we are time's own
and that asphyxiations
can never retain a breath
