Memories grow with time
not in volume, but in strength.
The early ones, like you soaked and barefoot by my side
and me slowly stroking the strings of a guitar.
When we spent nights on a cold, oak bench
and watched raindrops hurl themselves towards the ground.
Memories can fade in time,
not in strength but in volume.
The later ones, like the empty bottles that scatter my apartment
and the dishes that still have crumbs plastered on them.
When we spent nights chasing demons
and watched as corks sprang towards the ceiling.
Memories can be our time,
not measuring it but representing it
The present ones, like you walking with a white gown down an aisle
and me limping home from foreign soil.
When we gaze over photographs like a movie
and watch as it surely fades to the credits.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.