December

I can't forget but won't remember by December.
I tell myself this to feel better, I won't be bitter.
I read, I see, I feel, I sing and try to let it all in.
Just in the hope to let it all go, I let my emotions flow.
I pretend it was a dream sometimes and wish it were real oftentimes.
I write constantly about this, and slowly everything becomes amiss.
Did it really happen, I wonder while I try to not be fonder
Of it, of this, of the not knowing which limits the growing -
The growth of me, the growth of beauty.
The expectation of things to come; Russian Roulette's gun.
If I pull the trigger will I drift assunder?
Or will I return resplendent? Back to independence?
I can't forget but won't remember by December.
Though it will be alright if I do - because it's you.