A song that you once thought you would forever long kept playing in your head, even with the play button unpressed. A flashback in the middle of pitch black used to play that track whenever moods attacked. Ticking like a clock, with hands not getting tired.
Until the infatuation reached saturation. Like a memorized poem recited in the room. Or the finest chocolate, but consumed until eight. The melody once harmonious has notes now monotonous. Moving like a machine, full of rust within.
The person – or at least the idea – is fading.