All I have now are memories,
kept precious in my secret garden.
I tend them regularly,
I re-experience them religiously.
I must preserve them so carefully.
Although I am afraid that my over-watering will stifle them,
fading the colours of their petals,
distorting the vista,
unwittingly inviting weeds to flourish in between.
But since memories are all I have,
I cling to them against my better judgement.
These memories are my stepping stones,
my way back,
to who I once was,
to who I am surely supposed to be,
instead of the bewildered wraith I seem to have become.
My secret fear is that the wraith and the memories
form an unfortunate symbiosis,
keeping eachother alive.
Perhaps letting the memories go
is the strength required to move on.
But then what kind of creature would that make me?