Today I struggled to remember your perfume.

I never thought I’d lose the scent of jasmine,
Or have trouble picturing your face;
But these days I find my memories
Have somehow, quietly been replaced.

How fast they fade from conscious memory,
and burrow deep into some other secret part –
the details of a living’s complete story –
remembered clear and perfectly by heart.

I carry with me everywhere I go
these sorrows from a hundred little rooms;
and I know you wouldn’t want that,
but I haven’t found a way to let them go.

So I stood upon Lord Byron’s bridge tonight
and sighed, as he said people do.
I stood halfway from the palace to the prison
And wished that somehow you could tell me what to do.