You spend the lasts of your days writing away.
Jotting down the memories, one by one,
you search the nooks and corners of your mind,
the figures and imaginary of someone you hoped you’d become friends with.
You hold on to the details of the brow arch and the edges of their mouth when they smile; and hope to disappear in the crease.
But you know that as the days go by, you won't quite remember which side their mouth lopsides when they smile, or where their brow is cut or which shirt they wore when you saw them first.
And so you etch whatever you recollect on your mind
like a welder imprinting his initials on a steel