All I can think about is you, to be honest.
I feel our memories in my palm. It sits, a little orb with faded words, laughs and breaths. I wonder if you feel those memories too, and you let them dance in your palm, something to get you by. Something to make you smile. I hope so, because I do a lot. I let them dance in my palm, I let them slither around me like mother nature's vines, twisting around me to eventually fade into me and merge into my skin. They've become me.
Aren't we all just a bundle of memories? Memories that we long to feel for again, that we wish that we could breath in that same summer air when your ice cream dropped to the floor and I laughed too hard, causing me to drop my ice cream too? These memories we hold fade so quickly, but become a part of us just as much. They're like the fuzzy outline of a picture, you can make it out, remember the way your heart beat and the way your fingers felt. I still remember the way your eye glistened with the moonlight reflected in your eyes, when we walked together that night. I remember the visible breath I let out, and how cold it was. I wish I could never forget that, but I know I will one day, but that memory of your eyes will be etched into my skin like a loving scar; as if it were there all along.
Our memories will make me. My memories of you will make me. You will make me. You are my most deepest scar, but as always, it will fade. I wish it never would.
by Anastasija Stradniece