My memory has been getting worse.
As seconds turn to years,
As mole hills turn to mountains,
As truths turn to theories.
I had memorized her shadow, the turn of her face,
I had memorized her golden curls bristled with wind,
All now stilled by dirt and borrowed words.
Only pictures remain, cursed in unbridled stillness.
A second loss to Father Time.
The first in blood, the second in cerebellum.
She fades from me like a tattoo in the sun,
While a stone remains, mocking forever.
How fitting her name should be printed into the Earth,
Curves of stone remembering long after I forget.
The wind no doubt less a cruel force than that of time.
Copyright © Rachel Seabaugh | Year Posted 2021
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