To the pulse that echoes of Us 

​No, I don’t remember, I don’t remember the first time we met, 

Or when you told me you love me, 

Or even when I told you we could take a chance

I don’t remember how many or even where the letters that you gave me as tokens of your love are. 

I did not press the flowers that you brought me between the pages of my favourite books, so that whenever I open those books the wilted roses would remind me of our beautiful days.

No, I don’t complain about the limited time we have. I’m just fine with what comes unsolicited. 

No, I don’t accept presents from you, because I know one day you will be gone and those presents would remind me of your absence. 

No I don’t let out my feelings often, because I know they will haunt me forever to come. 

I don’t lament over the fact that years from now I don’t see us together. Because earlier I didn’t know better than to cling on to love. 

Those little gestures, those silly little gestures that you call expressions of your love remind me every now and then of how much you are like I used to be. 

My ability perhaps to perceive them as nothing more than temporary, reminds me of how much I’ve become like the people I then wanted to please. 

No, I don’t remember or I pretend to not but you need to understand that I used to and now I know better. 

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