There are fragments of memory that come back and bite,
They are just a flash.
Could be a whiff of fragrance, a gesture or a half forgotten song,
But they have tendrils that drag you right back,
To the moments when you can feel,
That part of your heart,
That is tender and unhealed.
The scar will not, quite close over.
I call these moments ghosts.
For when they visit,
A coldness washes over me,
And I know that I am haunted.
Yet as time passes,
Ghosts become bored.
Your life fills with other responsibilities and distractions.
And your visitations decline.
And you are close to happy again.
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