The burnt memories

Years have been lost from the pocket of my life in getting rid of a picture after picture of those faces from my memory. Like a photo album holding the features of people, I hold a picture after a trivial farewell, light the matchstick and bid farewell to its burning remains until the last fragment of it. The stock of matchsticks has begun to diminish... Then I hold the picture that follows, no one told me that your picture would also be thrown among the pile of pictures. Then to the next picture, and the one after that, won't it all end someday? I am not saddened by their farewell as much as I am saddened by the wasted time, let's be honest, I spend more time burning their memories than the time I spend meeting them. I gaze into the trash bin, where the ashes of burnt pictures lie, I check on the remaining pictures in my memory, when will it be time to burn them too? Will we sit voluntarily like adults, with a fake smile drawn on our faces, bid farewell after half an hour of meeting, and that will be the last meeting? Or will a tear be shed, and will I shed one with you? Or perhaps as usual, as taught to me, I visit the grave of pictures in the trash bin and see nothing but a heap of ashes. And in this state, there will be no more matchsticks left, and my basket will not have room for more waste.