I’ve almost forgotten the smell of her skin, the texture of her chocolate hair and the look on her face the moment my fingers slid down her skin.
I can’t seem to find the color of her eyes imprinted on my mind from some forgotten space in time, some old abandoned room, some three stories up too high.
I can’t recall the laughter in her smile, the turn of an unfamiliar phrase, the cry of unmentionable desire or whimper of repressive self denial.
Where once there was a spark, there’s only an ember of a flame. Some days I can barely remember the sound of her name.
Memories turn gutter-trail gray, soaked, and drift away far from the tight grasp of youthful reverie. If only for a moment, I could grasp them in the palms of time, curl the fingers and hold on tight, I’d never shut my eyes in the hopes to stall the dawn of another day that I’ve almost forgot.