Holes.

These memories don't float by
Like they should.
They don't breeze past
Silently,
Neglectfully.
They are not nonchalant,
Not thoughtless in their presence.
Nor are they faint, unclear, or restrained.
Instead, they are explicit and tangible,
Distinct.
They manifest themselves in every possible way.
They make their mark.
And where they can't, where there's resistance,
They fight, plunge and make holes.
Deep, everlasting holes.
Perfectly round, perfectly hurtful.
And then the memories go away,
As though they never came, were never here.
But the holes,
They remain.