When did I create them?
I was just spending time with you;
How do they now appear,
For they seem to rain all around;
In a song or picture, or even a word,
They pervade my every sphere.
Do they proceed with different clocks?
For I see days in just a minute;
And yet some seconds seem endless,
They linger in my vision.
Do they include their unique lighting?
For they can illumine my darkest hours;
And yet the brightest of lights,
Can never infiltrate their shadowy mist.
How do they heighten the intensity?
Of what was simply quiet joys beside you;
Now the calm is vibrant with emotions,
Creating feelings I never knew.
I did not know you could magnify,
As to fill up my entire night;
Bringing giggles or sobbing cries,
How did you get so large?
Some call memories their worst enemy,
Others say they are priceless scenes;
They bring tears and smiles alike,
What are these mysterious conjurings?
Might someone steal them from me?
For I wish to let them run free.
Won’t someone heal them for me?
For it hurts to let them be.
Water runs down my hands,
Soothing my sun-kissed limbs;
Can memories comfort likewise,
Could they supplant your absence?
You are at all places now,
and yet not a hug or even touch;
What if it’s no different,
Contact or its remembering?
When did those moments get so precious?
I was just experiencing daily rituals;
Why did I sanctify the casual?
For I cannot now replace nor ignore.
What are these stories that render them sacred,
Just fables to amuse the mind?
What if they are mirages of flimsy clouds;
Not foretelling storms nor reflecting heavens.
And are they really apart from me,
For me to yearn or regret them so?
Is not all sensations equally close,
Both of the mind and the flesh it muses on?
The shattered dreams of future hopes,
Are now the resilience infused in me;
Your love and care that seem missing,
Are still here in my own benignity.
This memory depends on you and me,
It’s neither the past nor its absence now;
For what is a past without the present,
Nor can the present manifest sans its past.
I alone don’t create the person I am,
I am my memories both remembered or not;
But then memory itself is just my current chronicles,
The infinite interplay of the new and bygone.