Her voice still resonates deep in my head. She is these in a
sense that still, to this day, I can’t forget. The little bits and pieces of me
that she left behind from when she was here cannot be placed back together
again…they hall have changed too much. From my perspective, when a person will
say that I do not know or understand what love is, I must look into their eyes
and see if they have felt the same that I have…and often times, they have not
had that feeling. In the face of enough irony, they force me to away. If they
do not know what I have felt, then they have not a reason to say even a single
word to me. And so, I will walk on, and along my path I will walk to both
remember her, and to find someone else to remember.
With her
memories still embedded underneath my skin, I claw at the scars, trying to rip
out those symbols of pain. I want to forget her…I want to know her not. But at the
exact same time, I do want to remember her. How I dearly want to remember her
embrace, the romantic coldness of her hands, the feel of my hands on her hips
as we would dance, the feel of her lips as they would so elegantly press up
against mine…and I can still remember that sincerity that she had in her eyes.
And at one point, that sincerity, that precious glint of love in her eyes was
gone; that was when we fell away from each other.
I will find
love again, but even though I am young, I will never forget her.
Daniel Helle, Third of May, Two Thousand and Eleven.
prev chapter
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
