Memory is flawed.

It dredges up only the best and the worst of things, and never the uneventful and mundane. I’m sure we’ve had a lot more memories, yet I can’t remember mornings that were as simple as making a cup of coffee or just us sitting beside you in silence. I’m sure there were days where we fought just so we could passionately make up, and nights that ended blissfully, but they are buried deep beneath the darkness of the cracks that ended us.

I am sorry if the latter is all I can remember. Our legacy deserves better, but memory is flawed, and I have nothing.

*For Day 29, Our Poetry Journey Contest
January’s theme: abc’s Revenge

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Identity

It’s ok not to be a rose. You may not be the pretty one or the crowd favorite, but that’s because you’re one of the wild ones. You blossom and grow in unexpected proportions. And when people finally notice you, they won’t recognize you or know your name, but damn they will feel you. They will fall in love with your uniqueness and finally see the beautiful ambiguity that you are.
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