From a Sleepy Draft-Box

Strange it is.
How often the things that once meant the world to us
just blend into a mesh of washed out memories,
distinguishable only in fractions.
And these memories, 
like a meal we might have had forgotten
to take, or a vial of perfume we had 
caressed before putting it back on the shelf, 
implode into one shy semaphore 
that coils down at the nape of our brain,
hoping to never hear from us again.