I was wrong

It can always get worse. You can forget that your beloved is dead and wonder where she lives now.  You don't dare to ask why she isn't living with you, but you allow yourself to ask if she lives in an apartment. Is it close? Could you visit? You don't ask why she doesn't try to contact you. In fact, you no longer know about the why of anything. There is no why. You don't know if you are alive or dead, and frankly, it doesn't make a difference. Can it really get worse?

At the intersection of lack of belief and no memory, there are no winners. His jacket has seen better days, but he sports a silver rose in his lapel. It  retains a faint scent that bears a resemblance to his beloved.  He claims to remember her.  He claims to remember us. But, he only knows us by our numbers. One. Two. Three. Four.  Reduced to the order in which we arrived. Right or wrong.