time is called the best of memories

the best of friends, of enemies. 

but what do we call a moment

that is yet to occur, nonexistent?

what do we call a memory

that just gives us misery?

 

.

 

(you call it life)

 

.

 

the first time he went back, it was april. 

he did it mostly to remember the beauty, to see the details he had forgotten to see, to lay his eyes on them again. 

he never planned to change everything. 

 

.

 

but he did, and that’s all that matters now. 

 

.

 

the picture remains unmoved from the wall, with only light dust gathering on top of the wooden frame. the photograph remains spotless, forever enclosed in a clear glass case, never to be touched again.

the photograph itself is nothing especial. just a piece of glossy paper with slight fingerprints that can only be seen at a certain angle with the help of the sunlight. but the image, the image is what made his heart skip a beat, what made his eyes to water the slightest bit, what made his mouth ache to reflect the smile he had in that past photograph.

because there, in that simple picture, laid seven young men, all with wide smiles and eyes full of adventure. for a second, as he closed his eyes, he could feel himself going back to that place, the small house with the four chairs. he remembers sitting in the left one, and being next to his friends, his brothers.

he looks at it then, and he remembers.

he remembers everything.

he only wishes they would remember him too.

 

.

 

(then again, why should they?)

 

.

 

he betrayed them. and although he wishes for nothing more than to be with them again, at least they don't remember the pain he made them feel.

but he would always remember.

 

.

 

when he opened his eyes, a single tear fell from his eye.

because in that photograph, where seven men once were, only one remains.

and he can't do anything to bring them back.