I remember you,
 (I think.)
and you remember me.

But romance autumn bleeds
 falsified cries — 
without shame, yet with integrity.

I remember the sycamore,
 (that wasn’t really there.)
and you remember our floor,

Where divine stars would,
 sit and eat — 
upon hours, and hours, and hours.

But we did not see, those stars shine,
 (an ember burned out.)
too quick.

Because I can’t remember your posture,
 or your voice — 
trying makes the canyons sick.

But I do remember,
 (the scar you left me)
only because I live inside of it.