Lines upon lines of messy scrawl,
barely decipherable by the mind that 
created them to begin with,
stare back from once blank pages,
while I stare back with a memory
just as blank as the paper before me
used to be.

I could trace every letter written,
one by one,
but still my mind refuses to believe
the words we wrote together.

A false autobiography fades away,
its pages and carefully written lines
blurred out, partially erased by tears
from eyes that can no longer see 
anything but the present.