The Memory Breaks

I saw the photo and felt it—

that warmth, that pull,

the person I used to be

looking back at me

from the page.

For a moment,

I was there again.

The setting was good.

I was happy.

I was someone who belonged.

And then I remembered

how it ended.

The warmth didn't fade slowly.

It stopped.

Like a switch.

Like someone reaching over

and turning off everything.

The photo didn't change.

But the feeling did.

Now when I look at it,

I can't go back to just the good part.

The good part comes with the ending

attached to it,

the way a sentence carries

all the words that came before,

the way a beginning

is always tainted

by knowing how it breaks.

I can't un-remember.

I can't go back to the version of me

who didn't know yet.

The photo is still beautiful.

But it's a beautiful thing

that led somewhere terrible,

and I can't separate them anymore.

I put it down.

I can't look at it without seeing

what it becomes,

without feeling the moment

it stops being a memory

and starts being a lie.