Miles of memories scribed
On a white wall with blue crayon.

Sadly though,
I don’t know if we can even call them memories,
Because without the writing on the walls,
I don’t think either of us would remember.

With each day that passes,
The blue words fade.
They become a lighter shade of blue.
They turn baby blue like the sky.

Then, as more days pass and we neglect
To reflect on the past,
The words turn white.
White like the clouds,
And they camouflage
Perfectly with the wall
Making it blank.

Blank so I can grab my crayon
And write
New memories*.
And hopefully this time around
I am a good enough author to make
Those memories
Last.

Perhaps this time I will use red
So every time I look at the crimson words,
I will charge at them
With such passion.
Like a bull,
Until I am brutally murdered.

But, if for some odd reason
That red fades
To pink, and with more
Time,
Leaves the wall
Blank once again,

Then, I’ll let you do the writing.