After The Party

For months I wandered through my memory, trying to recall the name of some significant place. It seemed much longer ago than it must have been, like an ancient life interviewed in yesterday's newspaper. 

What was that name? It had the answer to all of this, the confusion that haunted my recent time. There were faces, hazy but recognizable, smiles that could lift my spirit if the image would only focus. Had I lost all of that, or did any of it really happen? What was that name? 

The colours of that time slowly faded into black and white, a punishment harsher than death or torture. To be forgotten both ways, gradually, until the only remaining connection is the memory of feelings. The ghost of closeness and companionship. I don't recall ever feeling different than this present exiled moment. What was that name? 

One last memory remains true, though fading fast. Here I am, in a final moment of happier times, bidding unplanned farewells in haste and strong emotion. Promises made to keep in touch, to fight distance, not to slip away. All I have to do is remember: names of faces, people and the place. I storm out on the whim of rage and sadness, knowing all I have to do is not forget. Don't forget.

What was that name.