Never Forgotten Poems Novels & Stories

It has the graves of her sister months whom she rarely sees, these days We toasted November’s mausoleum and put daisies on July I let my arm linger at the base of October’s waist. I made promises I’ll never keep She smiled and plucked a forget-me-not It was the 31st. Next morning, I buried her (in snow, or was it old newspaper?) I made a fort of the stuff Sometimes, I think of her dreaming waiting for a spring she’ll never see.

When I opened my eyes, those memories lingered in my mind. I zoned out for a moment. Those memories somehow helped me to have an enlightenment about my identity. My eyes stung painfully when I remember Ravnal. My heart clenched miserably whenever I see his image in my mind. Tears fell like a heavy rain. I can't... I can't even imagine that he is... gone. I love him... I know... I could feel it. I can't accept the fact that he had left me. If I ever remember the day when he died, I do not want to remember it at all. I do not want to look back on it. I do not want to feel the devastating pain.

In front of her… A stranger held the first piece of a truth she had spent three years trying to forget. And for the first time… She wondered if her nightmare had never really ended.

I could only hope this plan worked as I licked gently along the mate mark I had created once more. Marking your fated mate is meant to be emotional. Amazing. Loving. Memorable. But, sadly, this time, there was no tenderness and care in this one like there had been the first one. Aria would not even remember it, and that made my heart ache once more. Lost to the moon along with the rest of the memories we had shared. But, my memories were still in tact, and my mind filled with images of that special night… the smile upon that beautiful face of hers as she had pulled me to her… knowing she was forever mine… both so clueless of what was to come…

It was a moment they would never forget, a moment that would stay with them forever. ************************************

Perfect for convincing a woman with no memories that we share more than a forgotten past. The revenge I’ve hungered for slides within reach at last.

So I began to pack my bags, but Sienna texted me halfway, attached with a photo of the car trunk full of champagne roses. [Look, Fiona. Duke still remembers champagne roses—these are my favorite.] [Thank you for grooming such a perfect partner. He's so much more romantic than before.] I didn't reply, and quietly ticked another day off the calendar. - That night, Duke broke his promise again—in fact, he didn't come home over the next few days either. As I solemnly cleared signs that I lived in my house and ticked the days off the calendar, I finally understood—when you were disappointed enough, you wouldn't even want to leave anything for the other person to remember you by.

It was a small volume of poems by a writer named Olaren the Younger, who had lived two hundred years ago at the edge of the eastern continent and had written about water and waiting. The book had been lost in the fire. She had been trying to remember the poems ever since. She recited two for me. The ones she could remember most of. They were simple. They were about a river going past a stone. They were the kind of poems a man read when he had spent his life ruling a founder pack and needed a quiet thing at the end of the day. I wrote the poems down. I wrote them on a clean page in my study. I added them to the drawer where I kept Mira's letters and my father's last note.

I kept reading. “Those who open the chest without being entrusted to it invite ruin upon their own minds. The punishment is not immediate death, but something far crueler. The unchosen begin to lose their grip on memory. Thoughts slip away moments after forming. Recognition becomes familiarity without context. Knowledge surfaces—then vanishes—again and again.” My breath caught painfully in my chest. They remember… and forget. See… and forget. Know… and forget. The room felt suddenly too small. Lydia’s face flashed through my mind.

My husband Charles always had selective amnesia. Anything that had to do with me, he would forget, then promise he'd make it up next time. On my thirtieth birthday, I prepared an elaborate dinner at home and waited for him and our family to come celebrate. But the hour came and went, and no one showed up. Burning with a high fever, I went out to look for Charles and called everyone else. Isabella's voice was warm with laughter. "Charles is here with me picking out your birthday present. We'll be back soon." My best friend said, "Traffic is awful. I ran into Charles on the way, so we're heading over together." Even my own brother told me, "I ran into an old friend with Charles on the road and