Sunday, August 14, 2011

sometimes, I write you letters, or even the more trivial email, and simply keep them. I want some miniscule reminder that we once communicated, that we were once so fond of each other. I never address them, as one would in the fashion of a dear friend, for the epithet reads like a poem of mourning. I like you more than I mourn you, I miss your companionship more than I miss your memory. I write memories, so that when the day has passed, I can remember them in concrete syllables. I write direct, conscious memoirs so that I will know them when I know nothing.
When I am gone, I will my words to remain.

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