The memory of me and you consumes that which is not true. The truth was a beautiful gift to my ears but turned and became what I feared. The memory is what keeps me awake at night when I think of you, when I think of all the things you bestowed to my knowledge and all that came to be. The only question I see is why we could not be? Day in and day out I ponder what lies underneath the sea of your eyes so that I may see what truly makes you happy and to know that my words painted the picture of who I am that your eyes glistened with the thought of me.
The memory of me to you is what I fear to be the devil inside of thee that you wish to banish, to rid yourself of the emotion that my memory bids to you.
The memory of me and you is what torments me through and through.
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