This one has been in the queue for a while. It’s a little one, but I read it in a anthology and it stuck out, so I saved it.
By Helen Hoyt
I can remember our sorrow, I can remember our laughter;
I know that surely we kissed and cried and ate together;
I remember our places and games, and plans we had—
The little house and how all came to naught—
But I cannot remember our love,
I cannot remember our love.