I am your memories. They are not me.
So it feels strange to be remembered by
These relics of my personality.

Although you mourn me, is it really me
You mourn, or thoughts of me that make you cry?
I am your memories. They are not me.

Ridiculous, such immortality!
To live like this, to hope they might not die,
These relics of my personality.

To be inside your head, where things you see
Are seen the way I saw them. Where I sigh:
‘I am your memories. They are not me.’

They are not me and so can’t ever be
Other than what they are, much as they try,
These relics of my personality.

I have no future any more, you see,
Except in you. And that’s the reason why
I am your memories. They are not me,
These relics of my personality.