Every post, every photo lost to history, you can't make my face out in a crowd. The memories we make now don't matter to you anymore, you shut me out with such quickness when you were so slow to let me in.
I touch two fingers gently to my screen, over the space where your smiling face beams at me and I hope you do the same, I ache, my heart soft and damaged, at the idea of being forgotten. I ask myself quietly, if I'm a villain in your story, If I am an extra with an unimportant role, with character flaws that make me endearing but no qualities to hold your attention. Most of all I ask myself if I'm thought of at all. Will you remember me when I'm gone? Will I be marked with scorn and forgotten? Is everything I do in futile hope that Someone remembers what I did before I up and leave?
Do I want to be remembered at all If It's a modified version of who I was?
Should I live in truth and risk not being remembered fondly?