Memories dripping from your fingertips,

thoughts turning into wine,

black ink seeps through the paper

as you yearn and as you pine.

Dust lies over all the books' pages

that you left open on the floor,

made priceless by the long ages,

though you care less than you did before.

Forgotten like the rest of us,

pushed out of your brilliant mind,

memories overflow, spilling from the glass,

reminding you what you left behind.

In time it all just dries and fades

as did your once-blinding smile,

leaving only darkened shades

in the wake of your impossible lie.

So you get up, weak at the knees,

closing the books, loving them most,

trying to remember every piece,

reminiscing on what you've lost.