Marks on Memory

“Wow! I never thought your heart would turn so cold,”
I whispered as the morning turns to gold.
“The stories of the 'us' we used to hold,
Are stories that no longer can be told.”
You looked at me with nothing left to hide,
As if a stranger lived there deep inside
your harsh gaze trying to decide
whether or not I'm worth your pride.
You sigh, “Some loves we are meant to bury.”
“Our dead love? Then perhaps you should hurry,
before endings leave their marks on memory
the way old flames survive as poetry.”