Memories are like old photographs,
Nothing but a distant reminder.
With subtle vanishing contrasts,
And a silent fading existence.
As the smudges of revisited times
Only slightly coat the reality’s flaws.
They change every time
Even if, just a little.
A little less accurate,
A little more wishful,
A little less permanent,
A little more to be desired.
Both full of the same nostalgia,
But at their essence, poles apart.
Photos are what we choose to see,
Memories are what we truly are.