I've forgotten how to play backgammon.
I remember you taught me how to play, until I could beat you at it.
I've forgotten to read.
The last book I read - and the one I read over and over again - was the one you forgot to pack when you left.
I've forgotten pool since the day you said goodbye.
The red graphite cue stick you gave me to replace the one I had that you lost remains untouched.
I've forgotten how to play mahjjong since you fled.
Red wine sometimes brings memories of those Sundays we spent.
I've forgotten how to sing since the day I gave up.
I've ruined my voice since then, smoking my croon into a croak.
J'ai oublie comment parler Francais.
Because I chose to stay instead of joining you in France.
I remember you.
Do you remember me?
I wish you would.
We loved each other.