I miss you only when I’m lonely, so surely this is not love. Your warmth is no longer something I can easily remember. The memory of your voice fades but your face doesn’t. Am I shallow to be enchanted by a good lock, still encapsulated by a touch of childhood’s purity? Or am I shallow for desiring someone’s presence when my heart don’t particularly beat for them consistently?
I count the stars when the sky is empty, since I know somewhere beyond that obscurity is where you reside. You used to love the sun more than the moon. I wonder if that’s still a fact I could verify. I wonder if you’re still the same person whose name I whisper for in the darkest of the night, or if this unreliable memory of mine has turned you into an entirely different personage.
Yesterday moves on like lightning, so should I. There is no use in wanting something that is not necessary. There is no use in adjusting my steps in order to chase the departed familiarity.
It’s time for me to let go, because the me of today is different than the me of yesterday. And the you of yesterday never existed in the first place.
(My memory of you is unreal. My feelings for you are lies.)
Sragen, September 2nd, 2021