I talk so fondly of forgetting.
Each memory should have stayed
Locked in that heart shaped chest
you surgically extract them from.
Lockets made from lost emotions
Hold nothing, but haggard hopes,
Interlocked ardour seems fancy
At the time, but time goes by so slowly.
Do I hunger for your touch once more?
Fervour’s fickle, this is not desire,
Only remembrance of carefree times,
A reservoir of emotive occasions.
I talk so fondly of forgetting
That it is always on my mind,
I am so defined by its latch and chain
That the key is permanently placed.
Am I such a forget-me-not for you?