Memory



At the end of the road -
Where one journey ends and another cannot begin
I dump all my memories of gloom, leave them there to wither
I turn back to walk -
Something holds me to the ground
I turn around, involuntarily pick up a memory
And hold it in my closed palm -
It's a memory of the day you were gone,
Perhaps it is just not meant to be here.

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Books by Arti Honrao

Depression is REAL

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