I don’t think that you search for me everywhere.

I’m neither that important nor omnipresent.

Rather, my memory’s residue never fully leaves

And you can’t decide what’s worse:

A jolting reminder so intense that the thing is almost ruined by how much your brain stitched my name to it,


Eroding that residue because it’s all you have left of me, and even if the sound of my name now grinds your teeth, I’m a sunrise in your memory—

Something temporary and passed who once brightened your entire terrain and warmed you into being seen.

We all reconcile with that residue,

Most allow a square or more to stay. Not because we want them back.

No, we just want to memorialize what was, acknowledge that it mattered, and maybe, the good is a reference point we can draw upon in the future.

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