All I Can Do Is Try

Did those times exist?

The late nights, the laughter, fatigue, dinners.
Our sore arms, injured bodies.
Smiles plastered on weary faces.

Were they recorded on the sandstones of time; Or are they a figment of imagination?
A notion in my memory, too proud to manifest itself in reality.
A heyday gone sepia.
A passing.

Inconsequential has the ever pressing present reduced the past;
Till doubt overtakes, And ceases to be.

You could be a sweet dream, or a beautiful nightmare.
Either way,
I don't ever want to wake up from you.