The Cursed Memory

The Cursed Memory

It was late that night

The road was empty and cold

With no one to answer for.

The moon was burnt and slivered,

The Road was cold tar and wet,

I sat behind the wheel—

’72 Cortina, engine humming

like a lullaby for the damned.

We weren’t racing.

But that would be a lie,

But youth is a dare

you never think you’ll lose.

He, on the Honda,

leaned forward into the wind like a promise—

free, foolish, faster and faster.

Then the broken rail

so sharp,

too late to see.

The tire skid was a scream

before the silence.

Metal kissed metal.

Rubber met pavement

Time shattered like a glass

I was out of the car before I remembered to breathe,

and he was in my arms,

helmet cracked like a dropped moon.

His eyes blinked but for a moment

then nothing.

Just blood oozing upon my hands,

like the road had opened jaws

and took after soul.

I don’t remember the sirens.

The gas station attendant

Just the weight.

Not his body,

but the weight of the moment.

It still aches in my shoulders,

still feel the blood on my wrists,

still see his face in the night

like he’s asking why.

I can’t answer.

Memory isn’t truth,

but it is loyal—

faithful to our pain

in ways facts never truly are

Sometimes I still see him,

leaning forward as he struck

just as it flipped him—

that final flight,

the blur of friendship,

ith the soft sigh of the world

that never stop turning

Not even as I screamed.

Author’s Note

This is not fiction; this is the hard truth, shaped by rhyme but forever scorched into memory.

The moment when speed collided with the reckless excitement of youth, shattering lives forever.

To those who are forever invincible in their own eyes:

I beg, I plead with you to read this as a warning soaked in

blood and tears.

STOP! Ask yourself:

Is the thrill worth the grave or, worse, forever nightmares?

Is your poem worth someone’s last breath… or maybe someone's

forever tears.

Bruce Curle @2025