memories stay, but people don'

weird, but i feel the butterflies in the pit of my stomach whenever i am reading a tragic stories and i like it. i'm now asking if i'm too accustomed with pain that hurting becomes my own comfort. like it will be more absurd if i am the happiest of the day—actually i fear of leveling up my doses of serotonin, i am more scared of familiarizing the warmth that ablazes my core; or perhaps i am just afraid that one day, i'm used to the light they provide and suddenly they'd be gone too soon. and it will hurt again—more impactful, shattering every fiber of my being that the good memories turns into painful reminiscing. your laughter, your playful smile, your soft gazes, your touch gently tracing my palm, your brewed coffee in the peep of daylight, your voice i would no longer hear, your handmade letters, your acts of service of love, your possessiveness, oh god, i'm starting to hate this pronoun "your", that i would beg and cry to have an amnesia—to extinguish you out of my system; and i will hate myself more for not moving when almost everybody is now going on with their lives and i'm just right here, stuck in a place i once met you. i curse love; i hated you for leaving me with an ounce of grief. a hollow