I hold the ragged pieces
Of a memory slowly fading.
Full of laughter and serotonin,
Fibres that are fraying.
Its threads slip through my fingers,
As if worn from all the times its been held.
I grip onto the loose ends,
Weaving through, making amends.
Restoration turns to reinvention,
But I realize there is no hope for salvation.
And there it lies threadbare,
With nothing but fragments to spare.