Stained

I remember you.
I remember the way we used to play.
The way we carved our path through the thicket of bushes and foliage.
I remember the way we plucked those berries,
and ate them without a thought or care.
I remember the black-toothed, wide-cheeked smiles we would give one another.
The way your hands would be stained.
The way they have stained every memory of you.
The way the stain, still now, bleeds into every new memory.
I can't hold her, because of you.
I can't live without regret, because of you.
I can't love anymore, because of you, and your berry-stained fingers.