Unfinished portrait
I walked the winding way down your memories.
We live in the age of perpetual documentation -
a blessing for the socially inept.
Every abstract gives insight,
but I crave the full portrait,
you in your every shade and hue.
I wish to know you better than breathing,
but I fail even to take notice of where the edges of my posters line up.
And I put them there.
What a shame, what a shame, what a shame.
When will I grow good at being a person?
How could I ever fill in the yawning cracks?
Anhedonia warps my mind and my memories,
but something remembered shines through -
thoughts of those dear to me,
occupying me from dawn to the witching hour.
At last, rays light the gray horizon.
Maybe I’ve a reason after all.
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