Leftover Love
The Color of Memory

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When the memories come,

I stop what I’m doing

squinting my mind to see them clearly

But even now, they are brief,

waning like a once full moon,

white against a pale morning sky.

What I have loved I cannot hold.

Like the tail of a waking dream,

I try to grasp the last details

lest I doubt whether I dreamed at all.

 

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Leftover Love
The Color of Memory