You never taught me to forget you, even though in your hands I discovered even how the wind whispers. You didn't prepare me for emptiness, for silence, for oblivion. You didn't explain to me how yellow is contained when the adages get tinged. No, you didn't teach me to forget you, and when the sun bleeds into red sunsets, the pulse vanishes in my hands. Silence draws you in the nostalgia of who I am, navigating my mistakes.