But that finite time meant the world to me.
You may never come back,
but I will always have your memory:
the ghost of you, running down the street with me at midnight;
our figures, making compromises under the gazebo that night;
your scent, and how that room will hereafter be "your room";
the books you left, the movies we watched, the songs that you'd play.
I can clean up your clothes,
and throw out your crap;
I can readjust my rearview mirror,
but I can't remove the memories.
No poem I write, no matter how shitty or eloquent
will express my feelings:
no longer hysteria, but a deep sadness, a knowledge that it won't
work out after we both have our degrees.
A realization that this is the end, beautiful friend.
I'll never look into your eyes again, not as I once did.
Your love was fleeting.
Mine was like continental terrain:
rising from nothing, sometimes falling, sometimes plateauing,
but nonetheless rising, until the summit,
where the only thing to do is
enjoy the fleeting view,
claim ownership, if only for a minute,
and make the long, hard trek down
out of your arms.
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