The illusion

You remember that day, under the cold weather, in the abandoned safeguard booth. I remember the dimmed lights, the locks on the rusty wooden doors, the sound of the waves cheering in agreement to our conversation. I remember the moon, hiding under the rabbit-shaped-clouds. We stood there, not touching each other, but exchanging daggers through the gentle caressing of our eyes. Holding each other when we failed to battle against the weather. It was a dark night, but the stars showed us the way to enlightenment. The cars danced to the rhythm of our words. The time served as a respectful judge to our standing. I remember looking over the shoulder and finding your name in the sand. I remember the comfort. I remember the illusion.
Now I see how it fades within the workings of my brain. I see how the chemicals keep working and the intensity is no longer. The question slips my tongue and I will not say it. It will guide me forever, deep into the ground, six feet under. And it duels my tongue. It battles against the microphone. Against the public ear. It battles your hear, that becomes an eye. It battles your being, that becomes a name. A vague resemblance of what once existed that is now forgotten. And writing is no use. And forcing it is a sin. And finding you is forbidden. And coming back is impossible.