Memory

Holding on
to something
no longer there;
made
not of molecules,
not of material,
not of matter,
but memory;
you exist
to me
like
the backdrop beating
of my own heart.
If I lay motionless,
I can still feel you
ebb
through me.

Like a flame
crowning a candle,
you burn bright
now,
but what will happen
when the fire fractures
and shatters into ash?

Being made of memory,
I cannot forget you.
For if I do,
I will have nothing else
but the stillness
of my heart.