Lost & Found: Distant Sores

I've found an old poem I wrote in 2016 in my email inbox. It was written during a trip to Washington, D.C., although I don't know if that has any relevance. Originally untitled, I've now named it "Distant Sores".

The wind blows cold tonight,

As I trace my steps upon the shore;

The sand is thick with memory,

Reminding me of distant sores.

There were four of us,

Back then, before she died;

Though, truth be told,

Beneath the layers it does hide,

Of shame, and guilt and so much more,

Burnt into a plastic card to haul,

But there was song and fire and some jest,

As much as they could from me wrest,

And memory created, won't you listen?

It means so much! And so does fiction.

But I see her face, from angles vary,

And through times, there are so many,

No candle or wind, albeit I knew her,

No justice left in me to wonder.