The Symptoms of a Memphis Disease

Facts were facts are facts.

I could not do what you had done for me.

I was not stronger than the demon being born inside of you.

I was not bigger than the idea of a dream yet to be fulfilled.

I could not tell you that you were stunning.

And after awhile, even the dissipation of our novelty was exponential.

I believed you would one day want to be buried alongside me.

I thought my conviction could be contagious.

I had eyes, and thoughts for that matter, bigger than I could stomach.

Complacency had seeped through our wallpaper and wafted into this bed.

I thought I could press my cheek on your chest.

I thought holding your hand could make all the difference.

But making all the difference was the only difference here.

We were newspapers, you and me, too fearful of change and naively believing we were

immune to its inevitability.