The memory of us

I don't always miss you on lonely, cold nights. 

It's not always when I'm lying on my bed. 

Never gazing at the ceiling to relive this again. 

Nor having flashbacks of what we used to be. 

Sometimes I'm walking. 

And I pass by a place where we used to sit. 

Then I stand there, still and steady. 

Peaceful is what I seem to be.

But screams would be aching my head. 

So I could swear right there and then. 

That's the most hurt I've ever been. 

For, there the memories are playing. 

And then, the details are remembered. 

It's the place where i wander with glittering eyes. 

It's where the objects and people come back to life. 

Unlike nights in my bed. 

Where we're only images playing in my head. 

When I could deceive myself into thinking. 

That I'm only imagining the memory of us.