Imperfect

My memory of you is imperfect. It has been years.
Some memories curl away like smoke. Pictures shifting in light, and sometimes I remember. Who you were and who I was.
Some memories are like broken glass scattered across a floor. Fragmented. And I don’t walk across them because I don’t want to bleed.
Some I only remember at night.

My memory of you is imperfect. We are shadows.
Some memories stick. Black tar in dark corners. I can’t see them to clean them out.
Some trip me, catch me up. Tell me things I had forgotten. Show me secrets that I keep from myself.
Some of them need to be unearthed.

My memory of you is imperfect. But you haunt me.
Some memories are so clear, pinned and preserved, a butterfly in a jar. So near I can still feel you.
Some run away. Streaking across the night sky. Laughing fugitives that I never come close to catching.
Some I have forgotten until I dream.

My memory of you is perfect. It has been years.
Some memories are a dark solace when the light is too harsh. A moon when the sun burns too bright.
They are the taste of the sea and the rush of waves and a sail in place of oars.
They are you and they are me.