i forget to forget the way
your hair smells and your eyes shine and your hand feels in mine. i forget to forget the way your skin tastes and your mouth tastes and your words taste as they dissolve in my spirit. i forget to forget the way your chest rises and falls our words exchanged finding their way into the pockets of our souls to bloom in some other unexpected moment. i forget to forget… but i forget to remember this wrenching in my chest when you love me and leave me to fade, to wither, to thirst for you with no relief. i forget to forget the happy ding-ding of love notes sent to my soul, your your gaze in my direction, and instead remember the disappointing weight of sadness as the silence then stretches out and stretches out (and stretches out). i forget to remember the tears and the loss my heart that you toss over your shoulder and onto the curb i forget to remember the break and the burn and why I should have learned to forget your blue eyes and your look-away smile to forget your still strength and your fears reconciled to forget the time that you said I was the best thing that ever happened to you that I was worthy of your time and your attention, and your affection. to forget the mirage of what seemed to true forget the belief in the man that i knew rhymed words and spilled ink are worth nothing, it seems, if the only gestures of love come in hashtags and links this time i must try to remember to forget this imaginary love, and instead remember to remember the way this always turns out for me. alone alone alone alone. alone, and reading spilled thoughts of someone i (maybe) knew and the (almost) love that you (perhaps) dreamed of you and me and the magic that never came to be.
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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