A museum to memories washed away;
Each corner telling secrets lost;
But where is the shrine to forgetting?
Letting go of the past and moving on;
A museum to the memory of you and me,
In death I could not love you more,
Yet I can’t remove you from my mind;
The sheets still smell of your silky skin,
The deep woods still carry your laughter;
A museum permanently stamped into me;
There are frames of you hanging from its walls,
Pictures I’ve never seen but want to forget;
In there lies the words you wrote me,
The chairs are as you left them here;
A museum to the memory ever resounding;
The air still holds you strong,
Even the silence screams of you;
My mind can’t wash you away!
I’ve counted the ways and they are too many,
But in death I could not love you more;
A museum to memories as bright as when painted,
Oil paints constantly brilliant under the wearing sun,
But where is the shrine to forgetting?
A museum of dead memories in my mind.
©2008 – V. A. Coote