À la recherche du temps . . . trouvé?

Out of the blue, it hits me: a song...(a memory). More often than not, a scent...(a memory). Or something caught on the edge of my vision...(a memory).

I re-live reality through rose-colored glasses.
Sufficient - for a while.
But now? Now it's more difficult. I think back. And I remember.

Remember the reactions. And the feelings.

Remember the smell and burn of the crisp night air.

Remember your battered old shirt - clearly Grunge-era.
Not that it mattered.
What mattered was the person wearing it.

These memories are difficult. Happy, but difficult.
They refuse to fade.
Blissfully tormenting my inner workings,
they grow stronger with each recollection.

Stronger with each song.

Stronger with each scent.

Stronger each time I catch a glimpse of someone who looks like you.
Dresses like you.
Walks like you.

In a moment of weakness, I escape to my memories and bring back the heavy-lidded gaze from your eyes, and I let that gaze capture mine.

Your eyes . . . reflecting joy and sorrow - or perhaps only weariness - simultaneously.

Your eyes . . . silently imploring me to listen back with mine own.
And I did - though still somewhat shyly.

So, you see? My problem is not forgetting my memories of you.
No, my problem is that I can't forget them. I don't want to forget them.
But, I fear, one day I might be circumstantially forced to forget them.

And that? That I could not bear.