Too much responsibility.

The glare of your voice still makes it hard to look at this world.
The secrets I hold, the moments that without my memory would be lost; too much responsibility.
The taste of your lips, the temperature of your hands,

The way you looked as you pretended to sleep; things I know and can’t erase.
The glare of your voice still makes it hard to walk around in town.
I carry a thousand un-talked-about kisses;
The beautiful scars of un-lonely nights.
The first time my body met yours, the last time we talked about us,
All the moments we spent in that house; things I know and can’t forget.