I cry for my childhood–
–But not for the loss.
I cry because I look at the old photographs,
and can’t remember names.
The place, captured in time, but I
can’t time the place.
So much has happened–
–so much bad to be blocked out, that
the good stuff has fallen through the holes.
I cry for my childhood–
–for the lost memories that
I was supposed to cherish when I grew up.
chimerawrites 