March.

Eight months.
You face has faded from
my memory. I can't remember the shape of
your eyes or the curve of your smile.

When I think of your face, you're a blurred
outline with blonde hair and some blue eyes.
A color that lies at the bottom
of the ocean floor; something I
don't care to die for anymore.

It is what it is; to look inside your
mind and see a blurred mess. Not
to remember much, but words.

Words that do not mean a thing
anymore.