The first thing to die of neglect is the memories.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking out the window and letting my eyes lazily drift from street light to street light. It reminds me of something, far off and far away. A memory I once had. I don't even remember what it was by the time I sat down and started typing this.

It made me think a lot about one or two people I used to call a friend, who are now dead to me. I've lost a lot of friends over the years. More recently, a lot more.

One of the worst parts is not so much the betrayal as it occurs, but these moments later down the line. 

This is a different sort of melancholy. This ache comes from having such wonderful stories, and not being able to be reminiscent with those who were there.