After some time, people leave.
Those who used to stay, wait, and listen to your stories, gone.
Those you know you could come home to, leave.
Those whom you could miss and heart, disappear.

Sometimes the hardest part is not the person who’s gone.

After all, it’s the memory of “those”. You know it.

The memory you try to erase every second,
Second turns to hours,
Hours turn days,
Days turn months.
Yet, they barely gone. They just glue.
Sometimes, worse.

Perhaps you shouldn’t erase them.

Let them stay.

For after some time, the memory leaves.

While you manage to survive.