I've wandered into a desolation of a memory.
Little scraps of emotion dripping from the seams.
Her smile, his laugh, the way they danced;
Pretending the romance between them was friendship,
And the closeness of their relationship wasn't their tragic flaw.
I touch the walls, and little ripples of color are brought to my attention.
The taboos and the anathema painfully resurfacing.
Yet still they spin, trying not to repeat the past,
But how could they possibly do that;
When they kept repeating the same move over and over again?
Tendrils of fabric are torn in this memory,
The places where they got too close,
Or where they grieved too much.
It is a memory I visit often,
But too often the memory visits me.