Forgetting you is a religion 
I practice daily,
a devotion to the art of erasure, 
a ritual of unremembering, 
a slow unraveling
of the threads that bound us, 
a gentle unweaving of a red tapestry, 
a fade to black, 
a slow dissolve of 
the once bright memories, 
a dimming of the lights:
leaving only shadows, 
and the faint outline of what once was, 
a ghost.
What remains is a shell, 
bewitched by the siren of death, 
sitting onthe ancient remains 
of a building
where God drunk danced. 
What remains
is a residue of longing, 
a stain that spreads its darkness, 
a slow seepage of 
what's been forgotten
into the soil of my soul 
whereit germinates, 
a seed of what could never be.
What remains is you
in the rubble of a forgotten city, 
your eyes like 
two lanterns burning in the dark,
an opium kiss to the moon.
What remains is the sun,
burning a hole in the sky-
a reminder that 
time keeps moving, 
even as I remain, 
stuck in 
the quicksand of memory,
trying to recall 
the exact shade of your eyes, 
the curve of your lips, 
the way you laughed, 
the way
you loved me.

But it's all fading now,
like the light on a winter's
afternoon, slowly
disappearing into the
darkness, leaving me
with nothing but the
ghost of our love,
a haunting that refuses
to let me go.
.

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