Dear Past

Why can I not escape you?

Why do you find me, no matter where I go?

How are you so apt at sneaking up behind me on crowded busses and trains, or sliding into the seat next to me in restaurants and bars, and pressing your cold bony hands against my shoulders, holding me in place and beckoning "Remember......"

I don't want to remember this. And though the memories fade a little every day, their color a little less bright, their taste a little less fresh in my mouth, the feeling of them is there. So familiar and real. The way the blind cannot see the hands of their mother, but knows their touch from the touch of a hundred others. I know these memories, even if I can barely see them anymore. And they come to with their hands and lips and hair and smell more than their face. His eyes they gaze at me, through pictures. I hate you for it. I want to ask you so many things, But I want to tell you only one. It's been too long, this should be over now.

And the past should be moving on.
Visiting someone else
Haunting another's dreams.
But it will not leave, and I can feel you in my sleep.