October 3, 2013
This is dedicated to past loves, especially that one that keeps coming back.
We have forgotten us. I used to know exactly how your fingers brushed against mine, sometimes from habit but more often because I saw you so seldom I held every detail close. I used to know exactly how your eyes softened when looking into mine, how you changed them whenever I pointed them out. You never answered when I asked you why, but now I must forget the question.
Likewise I have forgotten your landscape. Did you hold your stories in your palms and press them into mine, while pretending they were not there? Did you wear them in your eyes where I needed to find them myself? I have forgotten. Did you kiss secrets onto my cheek, or did you write them on the sky with my borrowed hands?
I have forgotten just how full of secrets we were. I suppose you don’t remember when I wore your favorite color that one day that mattered, and I suppose you don’t remember the date of when I first asked you to smile for me. But why would you want to remember?
Would you want to remember how uniquely I loved you from all the rest, how you liked the way I held on to you? It has been years and years since we held onto ghosts of one another we have forgotten how our skin set fire together. Why would you want to remember how I felt under your arm when you have fit another into my mould?
I have forgotten a lot, but I have a lot more to forget. So do you, if you have forgotten how to hold anyone in any other way than the way I held you. We have not forgotten. We only pretend to.