Tell me I am forgotten.
Perhaps not me, but the parts of me better forgotten.
Every moment in our past is never truly forgotten. Not anymore, not these days. Every moment, experiment, mistake, becomes a relic for someone to uncover at a later moment.
Perhaps what I found is you, perhaps it is not. I am near doubtless it is, but what is the point in reminding you?
You are not quite forgotten. There are too many relics of your past for me to stumble upon entirely by accident. Too many relics that dig up parts of myself that I had wanted to forget.
Some things are better left reburied where found.