There is a memory on the tip of my tongue,
On the edge of my mind,
Something tugging at my thoughts,
Some-kind of history of me.
There is something hiding in my past,
Hidden in the darkest parts,
Somewhere out of reach and out of place.
Out of reach from others hearts.
There is the whips of a memory,
Like milk dissolving in water,
Poignant as if it is crystal clear,
Locked away from me getting near.
The closer I get to the spot,
The further away the thought,
Never to be remembered,
But always on my mind.
©The Pesky Poet
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