Someday you'll grow old.
You'll look your mother in her monochrome eyes
because all you have left are photographs:
Little paper gateways to memories,
two dimensional portals to what once was and may never be.
You will hold them in your hands
but you won't be able to feel the skin
and curves of your ex-lover's body,
or the wrinkles
sketched around your fathers eyelids
like tiny water ripples.
Only then will you realize
that memories are songs we composed
in the journey of growing up,
but only a few of us can remember.
Some of us have burnt the paper
with which we once wrote the lyrics,
some of us have hung them up
on the walls of our minds
and put symbolic frames around their edges,
just so we do not lose them,
just so we do not forget.
In the end we are nothing but memories;
etched on the chalkboard of those whose love we are worthy of,
sometimes in a photo album
bounded by paperback.
YOU ARE READING
Anxiety and Things that Shatter
Poetry"Anxiety, you are lightening and a thunder only I can hear. In my despair, you wear an intimidating smile like a glittering stretch mark on the skin of the horizon." Cover by @DeathsDarkSoul
