Love That Died Beneath A Tear-stained Sky

I found your journal today, tucked away in the back of that old cardboard box where I keep all the things I can't bear to throw away. The leather is worn smooth, the edges are frayed, and the musky scent of your old cologne that used to drive me wild still clings to the pages.

Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light piercing the gloom, illuminating the faded words etched onto the worn pages. The relentless downpour washing away the remnants of a forgotten summer. 

I opened it to the first page. The one with your messy, teenage scrawl. Each letter is a siren song, luring me back to the wreckage of our past. 

"Remember me?" he asked.

Oh, how could I forget? Every curve of your lips, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you laughed… I remember the feel of your hand in mine. I remember the way the world seemed to shrink down to just the two of us.

Our lives intertwined like the roots of an ancient oak. We were supposed to be inseparable, you and I. "Two halves of the same soul," they used to say. But it seems that some souls are destined to shatter. We built a wall between us. Words like weapons. The bridge between us crumbled. And now, all that's left are these echoes of love we tore apart with our own hands.

You moved away, chasing that fresh start in a new town. And I stayed here. Tethered to the ghosts of our memories. This journal, your old guitar leaning against the wall, and the faded photograph buried in my drawer—they all whisper your name. 

"Remember me?"

Oh, could I ever forget? Every freckle scattered across your nose, the way your hair fell across your forehead, and the sound of your voice that used to make my heart skip a beat. 

But remembering is a bittersweet torment. Tears blurred the words on the page as I traced the lines with a trembling finger. I close the journal. The leather is cold against my cheek.

"Remember me?"

Yes, I remember.

And the memory is wound that bleeds every time the rain falls.